


Just One Mistake

by robinasnyder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 13:32:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 45,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robinasnyder/pseuds/robinasnyder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I Am Sherlocked" was just wishful thinking. Irene wins. Mycroft pays everything, but Sherlock's the one who's really paying. He'll follow Irene to the ends of the earth in order to get the camera phone, but that's just the way she wants it. Sherlock will do anything for a chance to beat Irene Adler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He remembered it sometimes, thought about it. He didn't delete it. It was bitter, but it gave him something to do, something to think about.

" _That's all it takes. One lonely, naive man desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special."_

" _You should screen your defense people more carefully."_

" _I'm not talking about talking about the MOD man, Sherlock. I'm talking about you. The damsel in distress. In the end are you really so obvious? Because this was textbook. The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption. Then give him a puzzle, and watch him dance."_

" _Don't be absurd."_

" _Absurd? How quickly did you decipher that e-mail for her? Was it the 4 minute? Or were you really eager to impress?"_

" _I think it was less than five seconds."_

" _I drove you into her path. I'm sorry. I didn't know."_

The apology scrapped at his nerves more than anything. There was too much pity. Mycroft was truly sorry. Oh my poor brother, I didn't protect you, or care for you and look how you've screwed up your life all over again because you don't have my protecting had. One more drop in the ocean of bitterness between them. Sherlock couldn't feel one more drop under all the weight of all the years already. Bitterness, anger, those was fine. Pity was galling.

" _Mr. Holmes, I think we need to talk."_

" _So do I. There are a number of aspects I'm not quite clear on."_

" _Not you junior, we're done now. There's more. Loads more. On this phone I've got secrets, pictures and scandals that could topple your whole world. You have no idea how much havoc I can cause and only one way to stop me. Unless you want to tell your masters that your biggest security leak is your own little brother."_

Because of course Mycroft would do anything for him. Galling, galling all over again. He wasn't a child.

" _We have people who can get into this."_

" _I tested that theory for you. I let Sherlock Holmes have it for six months. Sherlock dear, tell him what you found when you x-rayed my camera phone."_

She spoke to him like that. Mycroft spoke to him like a child. She spoke to him like a pet. It wasn't galling, galling wasn't the right word.

" _There are four additional units wired inside the casing. I suspect containing acid of a small amount of explosive. Any attempt to open the casing will burn the hard-drive."_

" _Explosives. It's more me."_

" _Some data is always recoverable."_

" _Take that risk."_

" _You have a pass code to open this. I deeply regret to say we have people who can extract it from you._

" _Sherlock?"_

And again, not like a child, like something else. He was the one who looked down on the masses. He didn't get looked down on. It didn't happen.

" _There will be two pass codes, one to open the phone and one to burn the drive. Even under duress you can't know which one she's given you and there will be no point in a second attempt."_

" _He's good isn't he? I should have him on a leash. In fact, I might."_

He doesn't look at her.

" _We destroy this, then. No one has the information."_

" _Fine, good idea. Unless there are lives of British citizens depending on the information you're about to burn."_

" _Are there?"_

" _Telling you would be playing fair. I'm not playing anymore. A list of my requests and some idea about my protection once they're granted. I'd say it wouldn't blow much a hole in the wealth of the nation but then I'd be lying. I imagine you'd like to sleep on it."_

" _Thank you, yes."_

" _Too bad. Off you pop and talk to people."_

" _You've been very… thorough. I wish out lot were half as good as you."_

" _I can't take all the credit. I had a bit of help. Oh, Jim Moriarty sends his love."_

There is was; the switch. One person in his life had truly beaten him. It wasn't Mycroft, they'd bicker and fight but Sherlock won as often as he lost. That Moriarty had a hand in it. Yes, he was Sherlock's real nemesis. He wasn't just a game or a puzzle, he was a real threat, _the real threat_. Irene Adler was a puzzle, a drop.

" _Yes, he's been in touch. Seems desperate for attention, which I'm sure can be arranged."_

" _I had all this stuff, never knew what to do with it. Thank god for the consulting criminal. Gave me a lot of advice about how to play the Holmes boys. Do you know what he calls you? "The Ice man" and "the Virgin". Didn't even ask for anything, I just think he likes to cause trouble. Now that's my kind of man."_

She's ribbing him, paying very special attention to him again. Why? Why focus on him if not to get his attention. One last puzzle. But then, she never could help bragging. Neither could he.

" _And here you are, the dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees. Nicely played. "_

" _No."_

" _Sorry?"_

" _I said no. Very, very close, but no. You got carried away. The game was too elaborate. You enjoyed yourself too much."_

" _No such thing as too much."_

" _Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine. Getting distracted by the game, I sympathize entirely. But sentiment. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side."_

" _Sentiment? What are you talking about?"_

" _You."_

" _Oh dear God. Look at the poor man. You don't actually think that I was interested in you? Why? Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes? The Clever detective in the funny hat?"_

He saw fear in her eyes, in her tone. He'd been sure. She'd wavered. He knew at that moment.

" _No. Because I took your pulse. Dilated, your pupils dilated. I imagine John Watson thinks love's a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive. When we first met you told me that the disguise is always a self portrait. How true of you. The combination to your safe was your measurements but this, this is far more intimate. This is your heart, and you should never let it rule your head. Chosen just any random number, you'd have walked out of here today with everything you worked for. But you just couldn't resist it, could you? I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof."_

" _Everything I said, it's not real. I was just playing the game."_

" _I know, and this is just losing."_

But it wasn't. Those terrible red bars had popped up, and it was all over.

* * *

"You're censoring my cases," Sherlock says when he sees his brother.

Mycroft doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. Sherlock knows. At first he wasn't sure. He thought it was just a slow period. He thought that it was just a dreadfully dull slow period. But then he started getting subtle hints. Lestrade didn't call him for a case that was baffling the police. They solved it on their own. It wasn't really one Sherlock would have cared for, but it was in the range where he'd always get called. It was then that he figured out. Mycroft was diverting clients.

"We had to cut out half of the social projects we planned and raise the tax rate," Mycroft said.

"I don't care," Sherlock answered, intending to turn and storm out angrily.

"I know you don't. Sherlock, sit down," Mycroft said. It was too caring and too firm for him to ignore, though he hated it.

"Why are you keeping me here?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft wouldn't let him leave, not with that tone of voice.

"She gives us new information every month," Mycroft said.

"Too smart to give you everything at once," Sherlock says, sneering. Mycroft just looks at him and he closes his mouth.

"Yes, new information… timely, accurate, helpful. She gives back some pictures to some people. It's not a bad partnership, though at a very steep cost."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"You mustn't go after her. I can't let you do it," Mycroft said. It was in his voice again, that hideous pity that got shored up every time the two of them seemed to be in close proximity to each other now. "You can never see her again."

"And that's why you're censoring my cases?"

"Sherlock," again, that pitying noise. "I couldn't cover everything. You failed, and it cost the British government a King's ransom. From now on you cannot do exactly as you please. They simply will not allow it."

"What is my sentence?" Sherlock asked. "Don't give me that look. If I'm to be confined I should be able to know my boundaries."

Mycroft sighed heavily. "Nothing outside of the Isles. You won't be traveling outside of the country for a while. Nothing that deals deeply with the security of our country."

"So what, I'm just supposed to sit around and wait until I'm handed something to do?"

"Cases will come up on their own. They always do."

"You'll throw me a puzzle now and then so I won't lose my mind? Should I be thanking you?" he asked, standing.

"Sherlock, please, sit down," Mycroft said.

"I know everything I already need to know," Sherlock said, turning and walking out. Mycroft wouldn't stop him. He was being too kind about everything. It was like when they were little again, Mycroft's boundaries. Sherlock knew very well that is wasn't Mycroft's masters that set those restrictions. Mycroft picked them. Mycroft was playing mother again. Mycroft was trying to protect him, keep him locked inside away from the real danger.

Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he felt so angry. He needed a cigarette.

* * *

It was possibly the most interesting case he'd gotten since Mycroft started taking a more serious interest in his work. It was also one that Mycroft would never have cared about. It was also more than a bit fun to cause problems up the line by using his brother's identity to get into the lab. It wouldn't be as much fun when he had to call and ask for his brother's help in the morning, but Sherlock hadn't thought of that yet.

He sat alone, by the fire, feeling a terrible, unending fear course through his veins. He couldn't help how he felt, but he wasn't used to feeling so strongly. After the screw up with Irene Adler, he'd felt quiet emotionally dull for a while. He'd simply noted it and kept going. Frankly, he wasn't happy to have such a strong feeling back. He imagined that as a child he'd probably had such strong fear, but he would have been too young to remember it.

Sherlock sat there for a long time, simply trying to get his mind back. It became easier to think about things he wasn't happy about then to think about what he'd said to John, or what he'd seen in the hollow. The Woman had been in leagues with Moriarty. There was something to start with. She beat him, she beat him at the guidance of James Moriarty. That crawled under Sherlock's skin whenever he thought of it.

Moriarty's games stopped being fun the second he'd heard that child speaking the countdown. He knew that he wanted to beat the man then. He didn't just want to play the game, to win. He wanted to beat him, to have him be actually dead and gone. If Sherlock could destroy him, then he would. That urge had become much worse recently. Hearing his names slip from the woman's lips had reminded him that he had no time to play silly games, not even with the woman.

No, he would continue with his cases, but he'd always have to keep one eye open for Moriarty's doings. Moriarty wouldn't leave him alone for long, of that he was sure. He'd gone after _Mycroft's_ attention recently, after all. Moriarty was waiting, biding his time. For a moment, just a moment Sherlock felt a pang, a wondering if maybe Moriarty too was only interested in getting to Mycroft. Sherlock quickly dismissed this as his body still reacting to what he'd seen in the hollow. On a logical level he also knew that Moriarty wouldn't simply leave him alone, not after the five pips, not after the pool.

That thought is comforting, and Sherlock neither knows why nor examines the feeling for a reason. He files it simply as the fear that's caught hold of him, which doesn't seem to go away no matter how he doesn't think of it. The fact that the fear doesn't go away makes him forget about everything else. Instead he replays the entire day, trying to figure out if there was any common denominator amongst himself, the client and John, and why only John hadn't see the hound.

He finds his deduction comforting. The more he is able to think, the better he feels. He knows that it's not real. He thinks that if he figures out what caused it then he won't be afraid, or at least that it won't matter. Yet even when he knows they'd been drugged. Even when he knows who did it. Even when he can be perfectly logical, he still sees the face of James Moriarty inside that mask. At that moment the fear he will feel will be more overpowering than even before. It will be even worse than when he sat in front of the fire and told John he didn't have any friends.

James Moriarty is the man who continues to punch holes in his life, and before they leave Dartmoor Sherlock Holmes promises himself that he will destroy Moriarty.

* * *

The next time he sees Moriarty, he's been caught on tape as he steals the crown jewels. Steal isn't so much the operative word. The only thing he did was break a case. It's odd, but Sherlock feels an odd kind of glee even under a good dose of weariness. Moriarty didn't brush him aside for his brother. He picked Sherlock, wanted Sherlock. There was something very glorious about the black and white image of Moriarty smashing in the clear casing with the words "Get Sherlock" written so that the cameras could read it, with a smiley face added to be annoying.

Six weeks later was Moriarty's trial. He was sure, knew for sure that Moriarty had gotten arrested on purpose. He was just showing off. The reason? The reason he couldn't figure out yet. Why would a man who'd stayed in the shadows, who preferred to keep his hands clean, why would he suddenly let the world see his face?

"The defense. When the trial begins he'll sit back, uninterested and take no notes," he said out loud one evening a few nights before the trial.

"Are you sure?" John asked.

"I'm sure," Sherlock said, and didn't speak of it again until after he'd been released from prison.

"You didn't have to speak about him like that," John said while they were in the cab.

"Like what?" Sherlock asked, his mind back on the problem. Why was Moriarty purposefully showing his face? Why wasn't he mounting a defense?

"Before you got arrested. He's a spider sitting on a criminal web with a thousand threads, and he knows how each of them dances?" John asked.

"Did I say it wrong?" Sherlock asked.

"No, Sherlock, you're not a poet," John said, shifting a bit in his seat, eyes focused on his friend. Sherlock didn't even seem to notice, eyes back out the window.

"I never said I was," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, the way you talked about Moriarty. If you aren't careful people are going to talk."

"Talk, talk about what?"

"About the both of you. It sounded like you were in love with him. "I felt we had a special something"? What was that?" John asked.

"You should know John," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, yeah, intellectual equals," John said. "But you don't talk about Mycroft that way. The only other person you seem… to…" John trailed off.

"Seem to? Seem to what?" Sherlock asked.

"The only other person you've ever been that interested in is… well, her," John said.

"Hmm… no," Sherlock said.

"No? That's it? Just no?"

"Yes, just no," Sherlock said. "Let's talk about the case," he said as the cab pulled up to their street and he got out.

"Yeah, sure the case," John said like he didn't quite believe him, but was willing to play along. Sherlock didn't think about his tone, and focused instead on the questions that actually needed answers. His questions, not John's.

* * *

Moriarty came to visit.

"Oh be honest, you're just a tiny bit pleased."

"What, with the verdict?"

"With me, back on the streets. Every fairy tale needs a good old fashioned villain. You need me, or you're nothing. Because we're just a like you and I, except you're boring. You're on the side of the angels."

Sherlock wouldn't say it out loud, but he did feel pleased. He was pleased that Moriarty was out. He wanted to be the one to destroy him. Watching Moriarty sit in _his_ chair just made Sherlock want to crush him all the more. But it was more than that… he was pleased; pleased to see the man had come to visit. He didn't care enough to figure out why. It was simply a comfort to know that the man continued to be interested in him.

Watching Moriarty transform himself into Richard Brook had been quiet shocking. How easy it was to strip away a man's reputation. All it took was a good lie, a good liar. All it took was a few compromising stories, a few emails. It was so shockingly easy. Sherlock hadn't cared before, didn't think he had. No one could take away his intelligence, his abilities, what else mattered? But he liked to show off, he always had. That was the flaw of genius: it needed and audience.

Watching Moariaty transform himself into Richard Brook had been astonishing. It shouldn't have been. He'd seen the man play Jim from IT before. But this time it reminded him of a woman, the woman. She changed herself so easily, playing the seductress, the damsel, and then the harpy. It all flowed together so well, all so believably similar. Moriarty wasn't like that at all. He could play any part. He'd break his act, but only for the people it mattered with. Sherlock watched Moriarty's hand part over his face and the mask of Richard Brook was ripped away… but only for a second. Sherlock felt his lips twitch when he saw that. It was brilliant.

Moriarty had always been brilliant, but even he had his weaknesses… things he didn't see… ordinary people. Sherlock was too much like Moriarty not to see this, to not plan ahead… and again, he was every bit as good an actor as Moriarty.

He had a feeling… an idea of what Moriarty would do. Moriarty wanted to give him a fall, in every sense of the word. Sherlock had to have his fall. He would get to pick the manner and place, he could manipulate that much. He just hoped Molly could follow through. Moriarty would have something up his sleeve, he always did. Sherlock had to have his fall.

It shouldn't have surprised him to hear that Moriarty was going after his friends. Three gunmen, three bullets. He wasn't so much surprised at it seemed so obvious there was no point to even think of it in words. John, Mrs. Hudson, even Lestrade were too important to him. Not Mycroft, even Moriarty couldn't rig that. Not Molly, from what Moriarty had seen, she was never important. That was the key then.

That didn't mean he wanted to go through with it. So many things could go wrong, so many things. He was about to do something he never thought he'd have to do. He didn't want to. As he stood on that ledge he felt so badly that he didn't want to, as his mind worked for any way to keep him from having to jump. And then he saw it and he started to laugh.

"What? What did I miss?" Moriarty shouted, angry with the idea that his little plans weren't perfect. Sherlock kept laughing, giving a little hop off the ledge and back onto the solid rooftop.

"You're not going to do it? So the killers can be called off, then. There's a recall code or a word or a number. I don't have to die if I've got you." He crooned the last bit, pleased with his solution.

"Oh, you think you can make me stop the order? You think you can me do that?"

"Yes, and so do you?"

"Sherlock, your big brother and all the king's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to do."

"Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you. Prepared to do anything, prepared to burn, prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell, I shall not disappoint you."

At that moment he felt like he could and would do anything. He'd felt too closed off for the past few months. That terrible jolt of chemical induced fear had woken him up, but he felt raw. He felt raw for Moriarty's end. He wanted to destroy the man so badly. If he ended up destroyed in the end he almost didn't even care so long as Moriarty was truly, truly beaten. Sherlock had never been someone against violence, but he'd always been in control. At that moment, looking at that man he could have done anything. He knew he could.

"Nah, you talk big, nah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels."

"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."

Moriarty stared at him for a moment before his face started to change. "No, you're not. I see. You're not ordinary. No, you're me. You're me. Thank you. Sherlock Holmes," It was like he was a child, being offered a chance to play after repeatedly being left out of a game. Sherlock remembered that feeling. Seeing it made him feel raw, a sick sense of recognition… and a memory of another time, when another familiar human experience had been used against him. Looking at Moriarty now he felt uneasy.

"Thank you. Bless you. As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You got a way out." Why did he feel so uneasy? Where was the lie? Sherlock had seen under Irene's mask too, had known that she had been in love with him, and then it had all broken. Where was the lie? "Well good luck with that."

Sherlock felt Moriarty grab tight to his hand, pulling him close as the man brought out a gun and put it in his mouth. Sherlock jumped back and there were a loud bang. Moriarty lay dead on the ground, smiling that insane little smile.

"No," Sherlock gasped, looking around. He felt that fear again, the one similar from the hollow… and that other sense… Betrayal. It was like the woman all over again. He'd seen it, he'd had the solution in his grasp. Moriarty had done it again, use Sherlock against himself… but it was less elegant. Sherlock looked around, trying to see the snipers. He couldn't. He knew he wouldn't be able to, but he still looked. He didn't have a choice. He'd have to go through with his plan. He'd have to jump.

No, Moriarty's plan wasn't as elegant was Irene Adler's. A man who had no connection to the world except to burn it all couldn't survive. Irene Adler's win had been complete. Moriarty's hadn't been. Yes, Sherlock's reputation was in shambles, but he had a plan. He wasn't going to die. Moriarty lost in the end. He was dead, Sherlock wasn't. Sherlock could rebuild, even if it meant going to Mycroft.

Thinking of Mycroft made something in Sherlock snap as he walked to the ledge. Moriarty's win was incomplete, why did Irene Adler's have to be? Sherlock would jump, be 'dead' for a few hours, and then come back, with a more injured body, but he'd survive. Snipers, criminals, once they were paid for a job, would not go after someone for a boss who wasn't alive. If a day passed, then the snipers would get their money and leave and it wouldn't matter anymore. A sniper for hire's loyalty lied in coin, and once the man who paid the purse was dead they wouldn't stick around.

But he would be 'dead' wouldn't he? Who was to know? Mycroft wouldn't… Mycroft wouldn't know. If Sherlock was dead then Mycroft wouldn't stalk him, censure his cases, or tell him that he couldn't go after Irene Adler. Sherlock didn't like having unfinished cases, and Mycroft said himself that Irene Adler continued to hold onto most of the information for herself. If Sherlock could get the phone and the passcode, then he could give it to Mycroft and everything would be cleared up. It would be like his loss never happened.

Sherlock made a decision then, and as soon as he made it he saw John. He grabbed his phone, quickly calling his flatmate, his one real friend. He had to make a phone call, a difficult one. John couldn't come looking for him. Maybe even more than Mycroft, John would look… and Sherlock just couldn't have that happen. Sherlock couldn't have anything else tying him down as he went to deal with the woman.

* * *

"Are you sure you have to go?" Molly asked, watching Sherlock tie his newly blood-free scarf around his neck.

"Yes, I'm sure," Sherlock said, glancing over at her. "Thank you," he said. The thank you sounded rusty. He looked down at the suitcase he was putting things into. He wouldn't need a lot, but he'd need something. "Molly, you're staring," he said when he glanced over at her.

"I'm sorry," she said, flustered and blushing. "I'm just not used… I mean, it's not bad, but it's just not…"

"I look different," Sherlock said. He'd been lying low for a few weeks, enough time for Mrs. Hudson to clean out his things and Molly to be able to collect some of the things he needed, like his laptop and a few clothes, all of which were packed into a suitcase, along with some of the clothes he'd wear for disguises, and a bit Molly had gotten from a second hand store, all freshly laundered.

"It's just… I'm not used to you without your dark hair is all," Molly said.

Yes, he did look different. He'd bleached his hair a bit, down to a red. It was an accident, he'd mean for blond, but the red wasn't impossible to work with. He'd change to blond later if he needed. He'd shave the moustache too, once he saw the woman again. For now he just had to get out of the country.

"You think it looks bad?" he asked.

"I just said it didn't," Molly said. "Here, take this," she said.

"For God's sake, I don't need a lunch box. The flight's only 45 minutes."

"It's not for the flight, Sherlock," Molly said softly, still holding the packed food out to him. It became awkward quickly, and he only took it when he realized that she'd just stand there mute until he did. The second he did she lowered her arm and sighed. "I know you don't have a lot left, and you're going to need to eat sometime. John would want you to," she added.

"I don't want to talk about John," Sherlock said. He'd gone one day to see his grave, only to find that Mrs. Hudson and John were there was well. He felt a deep guilt for leaving them behind, for the anguish on John's face. If he thought about it for very long then he'd give up and just go back to Baker Street. That would be easier, but Sherlock needed to go.

He felt too raw, too wrong. Not having Moriarty alive, not having a goal, someone to have violence for… Sherlock hadn't realized that he'd been repressing anything. It was shocking when he realized what he'd done. He couldn't ignore Irene Adler anymore. If he did he was sure he'd become just as insane as Moriarty.

"Please, be careful," Molly said. "Here, one more thing."

"Molly, don't please," Sherlock said.

"You don't have anything else. You spent everything you had in your wallet on the plane ticket. You won't be able to find her at first. It will take even you some time. Just take the money, and take the food. Don't make me worry about you," she begged.

Sherlock reached out, taking the money, but stepped closer to Molly, until they were almost touching. If they breathed a little differently, then they would be. Molly blushed. She always blushed. Sherlock wasn't going to be caught unaware with Irene Adler again, that he'd promised himself. He leaned in just a bit, pressing his lips to Molly Hooper's in the kiss he'd practiced over and over for Irene Adler.

"Thank you," he said softly.

"Don't-" she said. He knew the words 'mention it', would have followed if her breath hadn't caught in her throat. She took a deep breath and stepped back, putting space between them. "Just be careful… or more careful than you normally would be," she amended with a tiny little smile.

"I'll try," he said with a small smile. "Will you call me a cab?" he asked. He turned away, zipping up his suit case. It would be a carry on. He didn't need a lot, just enough. He'd dressed different, clothes that were much less his style, but with his hair and the annoying little moustache he'd grown in he looked very different. He'd even cut his hair a bit different. Any little thing to help him from being recognized. If Mycroft found him then it was all over. The sooner he could get out of London the better.

"Sherlock, the cab's waiting," Molly said.

Sherlock said nothing. He picked up his suitcase in one hand, and the sack lunch in his other. He walked out and got into his cab. He didn't say goodbye. He didn't think of it. Molly had been useful. She'd allowed him to practice a few things, practice a few acts he hadn't been comfortable with. He was comfortable with them now, had to be in order to face the woman. He knew how she felt about him. He wouldn't believe that he was wrong. Her love for him would be his undoing. He was sure of that. She wanted him more than as a method to get what she wanted.

" _You should stop by sometime," she'd said. "You have my number," she added_.

* * *

Two hours later Sherlock caught a cab in Paris. He didn't have an address, not yet, but he gave the drive vague instructions on where to go.

Ms. Adler,

Let's have dinner

-SH


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One Consulting Detective, one Dominatrix, one shopping trip and a first date.

Ms. Adler,

Let's have dinner.

SH

She'd be lying if she said she hadn't expected it. It was just a hunch. Jim was never late for his tea time calls when he actually scheduled one. She could keep him from being too bored when he had a down moment. She hadn't heard from him in a few weeks. She'd heard of the death of Sherlock Holmes, but she hadn't been able to imagine that he'd jump to his death for any reason. Sherlock Holmes wasn't that type of man. She'd peg Jim Moriarty for the type… if he was bored enough, if he thought he could win. That would have been Jim's one real weakness: he needed to win, overall he needed to win. The man could lose the hand, but he wouldn't stop playing until the game itself was his.

Now Sherlock Holmes, he was much more interesting. He played his games, he got out of it what he wanted, but even he could know when he was beaten… although he was a bit stupid too.

"Who is it Ms. Adler?"

"Just an old friend, Amelia," Irena said, glancing up at her new servant. What could she say? She liked gingers.

"Should I set another place?" Amelia asked. She was tall, but trim, with little figure but the girl knew how to work with what she had.

"No, I'm eating out this evening," Irene said, starting to text back.

"The usual?" Amelia asked, her black berry already out and scheduling her mistress's evening.

"No, I think some place quieter, don't you?" Irene said, looking down at the text she'd just sent.

You tell me where you're staying; I'll tell you where we're eating.

Irene

"La Closerie des Lilas at six?" Amelia asked.

"Yes, I think that sounds good," Irene said.

I do not have a place of residence at the moment.

SH

Yes you do

Irene

"I'll bet good money that he won't have an outfit suitable for the evening," Irene said with a sigh as she texted her address.

"Shall I make a call, Ms. Adler?"

"Yes, make an appointment, we've only got a short time period and much work to be done," Irene said, smirking down at her phone.

"May I ask who is coming Ms. Adler?"

Irene smiled, a predatory, luscious flash of teeth. "The love of my life. My new pet," she cooed, stroking the screen of phone as if she were caressing a lover.

* * *

Sherlock looked at the address he'd been texted. He expected as much from her. As much as Molly thought it would take him a while to find Irene Adler, he knew it would take hardly any time at all. Still, he'd stuffed the small bit of cash she gave him into his wallet, and ate her sandwich before he got on the plane. It was the least he could do after all she'd done for him. He did owe her. Whenever he got home he'd have to thank her in some way that was more than a kiss.

At the moment, he had more important things to do. He gave the driver the address, ignoring the man's annoyed splutters (they'd driven past it a while ago) and started to think. Irene Adler liked her games, loved them really. Sherlock loved his puzzles, which Irene enjoyed. This time, he'd be going completely into her territory. He had neither John nor Mycroft to help him. He could guess fairly well that if he didn't even work too hard that she'd have him as a kept man. If that idea had appealed to him, though, she wouldn't have been interested in him.

The cab pulled up to his building. He paid the man half until he got his luggage and then paid the rest. The cab ride had made a good dent into what Molly gave him, but Sherlock didn't think that was going to be a problem he'd have to worry about for while. He didn't even have to knock when he arrived, the door just opened, revealing a new woman he didn't know (red hair, slim figure, probably a servant, similar in appearance to the last one who's name Sherlock wasn't even sure he'd heard).

"Ah, darling," Irene said the second she saw him. She obviously wasn't exactly ready for the day, still in a short, slinky, silky dressing gown. He silently noted than it was better than their last first meeting. The second Irene Adler got close to him her long fingers reached up, tangling in his hair. "Oh darling, we have to keep this," she coos, tightening her grip enough to be possessive, and to hurt. He doesn't wince, his pride winning over his common sense.

"It's good to see you too," he says, letting the handle from his hand and his little suitcase thunk onto the marble floor. If he moved to do anything else Irene Adler's grip would become vice like and truly painful. He stood still.

"Good, good," she said, her eyes lighting up. Ideally she'd simply think that he wanted to belong to her now that his Moriarty problem (he assumed she figured that out) was over. He also knew that the ideal would not be the reality. Irene's fingers released his hair and she tugged him back toward her bedroom. "Amelia, have Mr. Holmes' things unpacked for him. Pay special attention to the coat," she added, flashing a completely territorial smile.

Her bedroom is every bit as lavish as the one Sherlock Holmes passed out in more than a year before. She pushed him to sit on her bed (which is made more for sleeping than sex, made more for comfort than utility of different positions. She'll have another room for play) and started to move around her room, pulling on her underwear and not bothering to cover herself.

"So, the great Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective in the funny hat fakes his own death just to come for me," Irene said, shimmying into her underwear (white lace, meant to be sexy but functional).

"I didn't fake my death just for you," Sherlock said.

"Then why are you still dead?" she asked, slipping on her bra. "Hook me up," she ordered. Sherlock's over long fingers reached up and do as ordered, picking her preferred setting without asking. "Why did you have to fake your death?" She asked, knowing that she isn't going to get the answer to her first question. She stepped into her garter belt before popping down next to him to pull up her stockings (nude).

"Only way to call of Moriarty's dogs," Sherlock said.

"Yes, for the moment, but not anymore. Tell me you're here for me," she said, snapping the suspenders into place.

"I'm here for you," Sherlock said honestly.

Irene didn't answer. Instead she went to her closet and pulled out a dress and slipped it on. "Zip me up," she ordered. Sherlock rose and walked over to her. He slowly, purposefully zipped up her dress. It fit like a glove. It was simple, floor length, white and over 2,000 euro in price. "I'd tell you to fetch me shoes, but I imagine you wouldn't know what would be flattering and what wouldn't," she said, smirking when he grimaced. He probably could have found something acceptable, but it wouldn't have been the pair she wanted.

"It's a little early for dinner," Sherlock noted.

"Yes," Irene said, coming out with her shoes (nude, also over 2,000 euro, six inch heels). She sat down at her vanity, slipping her shoes on. "You won't have anything appropriate for this evening. We have an appointment with a personal shopper, but there won't be time to come back," she told him, ushering him out the door. She walked with just as much poise and grace in her heels as she did out of them. They also lifted her dress off the ground enough to see her feet. She had perfectly tailored her image, as always.

She strode out toward the front door, which Amelia opened for them. She followed them out, locking the door behind her. Amelia took the lead after that, leading them down to a car. She opened the door for Irene, but seemed grudging to keep it open for Sherlock. At that moment he really didn't seem to fit with Ms. Adler, just by the way he was dressed.

Sherlock was sat in the back with Irene, who was doing some business on her phone and not paying attention to him in the slightest. He wasn't as familiar with Paris streets as he was with London, which was why it took him until they were half way there to figure out where they were headed. "Avenue Montaigne," he said suddenly.

Irene's pressed together in something that was both smirk and proud smile. "Good boy, though it took you a bit longer than I had hoped," she said with a slight pout. "Well, you have been dead after all, I suppose I shouldn't expect miracles," she said, letting out a tittering laugh when she saw Sherlock frown. "Don't worry, you'll catch up… now, what should I dress you in?" she asked.

"Givenchy, Gucci," Sherlock said, knowing what he'd actually wear.

"Versace, Westwood," Irene said, smirking at Sherlock's expression.

"No," Sherlock said.

"I'm picking, not you," Irene said.

"I'm wearing, not you," Sherlock responded, giving her a cold look. He was not about to be dressed like Moriarty.

"I'm paying, not you," Irene said. There wasn't much arguing with that, but Sherlock kept on with the cold look. He wasn't going to do it.

"Don't worry, tonight's a celebration. We'll fight about what I buy you later," she said, smirking a bit as the car pulled up. "Be a dear," she said. Sherlock didn't need her to explain. He opened the door and helped her out. "Oh, a gentleman, not many of those around anymore."

"Let's get this over with," Sherlock said. He fastidious about his appearance when he actually got dressed, and he could get excited about buying some things, generally only when it came to experiments or things he wanted. He was not getting excited about being dressed up like this woman's doll.

"Yves Saint Laurent," Irene said. "For now," she added, leading him into the store.

Sherlock knew French quiet well, but he refused to speak it at that moment. He did not appreciate what was going on around him.

"Ce n'est pas comme si j'achetais pour toi la collection d'hiver complète," (It's not as if I am buying you the entire winter collection), Irene said.

"Good, because most of it is hideous and impractical," Sherlock answer very firmly in English. He wasn't wrong either. He did not like the sales people dragging clothes on and off his body. He normally didn't care about his body, it was just transport. Yet Irene Adler did care, and the predatory look in her eyes when they stripped off his suits was making him very angry.

"I am not wearing leather pants!" Sherlock finally snapped after the third pair he'd been tugged into.

"C'est moi qui profiterai de la vue, pas toi," (They're for my benefit, not yours,) Irene answered.

"I'm not wearing them," Sherlock said.

"Si je dis que tu le porteras, tu le porteras, Sherlock." (You will if I say you will, Sherlock,) Irene said, nodding to the sales man, who stripped the pair of pants of Sherlock, adding it to their pile of purchases.

"Weren't we supposed to be picking clothes for today only?" Sherlock asked.

"Amelia m'indique que le peu que tu lui as remis est absolument atroce. Il n'est pas question que je sois vue en compagnie d'un homme vêtu de frippes," (Amelia informs me that what little you have is atrocious. I'm not going to be seen with someone in second hand garb,) she said, smirking up from her phone. "Mais nous avons seulement besoin d'une tenue pour aujourd'hui." (But we only need something for today,) she admitted. "Remettez-lui donc ces costumes qui me plaisaient, j'aimerais les revoir sur lui." (Let me see him in those suits I liked again,) she said.

Sherlock was very quickly changed into first one suit and then the other. He found neither of them entirely appealing. They seemed to have leather in places where leather ought not to be. Everything he'd tried on (or more correct: had tried on him) was like this.

"Hm... Je ne sais pas, qu'en penses-tu, Sherlock?" (Hm… I don't know, what do you think Sherlock?) Irene finally asked him.

"This one's fine," Sherlock said.

"Voyons, ne dis pas cela simplement parce que tu es trop paresseux pour en changer," (Now, don't just say that because you don't feel like changing again,) Irene chastised but she was smirking. Sherlock didn't want to change again, it was an annoying waste of time, and he suspected she'd make him change back and forth twenty or more times until she decided unless he could give her a good reason as to why what he was wearing was acceptable.

"Besides the fact that you're going to buy both anyway and these two are the least hideous of everything I'd been stuffed into for the last hour and a half," Sherlock said, not at all able or wanting to hide his annoyance at the whole process. "As this is the winter collection and we have reached not quiet fall, even with the declination of heat due to the setting sun, it's still a tad warm outside. The suit with the two front buttons and the leather lapel is marginally less warm than the one with the leather piping and four buttons. The one with the four buttons wraps closed more, keeping in body heat a bit easier. Good for a cool autumn or winter event, a bit less so when the weather still hasn't reached a temperature cool enough for the leave to begin changing colors. A warmer suit will lead to more sweating, more discomfort and less enjoyable evening. Can we go?"

Irene smirked. "Je prendrai les deux" (I'll take them both,) she said to the sales people. "Il gardera celui-ci sur lui." (He'll wear this one out,) she added.

Sherlock, finally able to get around from the hands and mirrors, walked over to Irene, giving her a look that as clearly annoyance. "How much of the British Governments money are you using to dress me us?"

"Seulement quelques milliers de livres, juste assez pour acheter quelques bandages à l'hôpital" (Just a few thousand pounds, enough to buy some hospitals some band-aids,) Irene said, opening an account at the store.

"We'll be coming back?" Sherlock asked.

"Tu sais, je ne pourrais jamais laisser un beau garçon comme toi sur le pavé. Et puis, c'est si drôle de te voir t'énerver quand tu te fais peloter." (You know I could never let a beautiful boy like you go cold. Besides, it's so much fun watching get annoyed when people poke you in the bum,) she said, before resting his hand on his posterior. He didn't jump (it was pretty obvious that was what she was going to do), but his eyes flicked over to give her a half-glare as his teeth very lightly bit the inside of his lower lip. It was hardly noticeable to someone who wasn't looking for it. For Irene Adler, he might as well and squeaked and batted her hand away. "Tu vois?" (See?) she said.

"You're interested in my posterior?" Sherlock asked.

Irene let out a laugh. "Mon petit Holmes, ta façon de courtiser laisser vraiment à désirer," (My dear Holmes, your flirting leaves much to be desired,) she said. She tightened her grip on his backside, making his glare intensify almost imperceptibly. She saw it, though and it made her smirk. "Mais ne t'en fais pas, ça peut s'arranger." (Don't worry, we can fix that,) she said.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"La Closerie des Lilas."

"Hemmingway?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrow twitching.

"Tu adoreras. Enfin, dans la mesure où tu peux adorer quoi que ce soit, j'imagine," (You'll love it; well as much as you love can love anything, I suppose,) she said, ushering him out. She steered him out with the hand that was still firmly placed on his buttocks. The car was waiting for them. This time Sherlock didn't hesitate to open the door for her. She rewarded him with a pinch on his left cheek that wasn't as hard as it would have been if he hadn't done what she wanted. It still left him scowling as he climbed into the car.

"What is it you do," Sherlock asked after a moment. "Now that you've won?"

"Tout ce qui me passe par la tête," (Whatever I feel like,) Irene said with a smirk. "Pour le moment, tu es là pour me distraire. Cela promet d'être amusant, non?" (Right now I have you to keep me busy. Won't that be fun?)

"How long do you plan to stay here?" he asked.

"Je comptais partir en croisière. Mon nouveau bateau vient tout juste d'être construit, mais je pense que ça peut attendre un peu." (I was going to go sailing for a while. My new ship just finished being build, but I think I'll put that off for a while.)

Sherlock looked at her suspiciously. "Why?"

"J'ai un nouvel animal domestique avec lequel jouer. Et je ne peux pas l'emmener à bord de mon nouveau bateau avant qu'il ne soit bien dressé," (I've got a new pet to play with. Can't take my pet on my new ship until he's properly trained,) she said with a smile that Sherlock didn't like, but he didn't say anything. In fact he went mute again, already trying to plan out his next means of attack. He knew that he wasn't going to be able to do anything until she thought she'd beaten him completely. When she stopped being worried about him then he could get what he wanted. The problem was that he didn't yet know how to act as she wanted, not even for a short period of time, much less a prolonged period like he would need in order to get the phone and code.

His thoughts were interrupted when the car stopped, but it took him a minute too long to realize. By the time he got out and opened the door for Irene she was already annoyed with him. After she got out she ended up pinching the same spot on his left cheek. This one was painful, twisting even. It was like she didn't want him to sit comfortably, which knowing her was probably exactly correct.

He offered one of his fake smiles and his arms. "Ms. Adler," he said.

"Better," Irene said, accepting her arm and letting him lead her inside. "Adler," she said to the waiter. They were taken back to a table very quickly. Sherlock waited to sit until the waiter (it was his job) had helped her into her seat. Sherlock sunk into his arm. The slightly worn red leather was comfortable, though he shifted a bit in his seat at first to find the best way to sit. In a day of annoyance, Sherlock Holmes added to his list the way her eyes lit up at his discomfort.

She ordered the wine, in fact she ordered everything. She ordered the appetizers ("Mellon and serano Ham," she said, winking at the waiter. She ordered the main course ("Sherlock, he simply must have the lobster here, and the asparagus is to die for."). She ordered the desert ("I bet you've never had lilac ice cream before". He hadn't). Sherlock didn't normally care about food. He didn't care about picking it either. It was one thing for someone like John to call and order out for the both of them when he didn't care, and for Irene to pick everything without even asking him or caring what he wanted.

"Sherlock Holmes," Irene said, taking a bite of her lilac ice cream in a manner meant to be sultry.

"Irene Adler," Sherlock said, taking a bit of his lilac ice cream, still trying to decide if he liked it. It was very odd.

"You know that you're never going to make me give my camera phone to you," she said, "And even if I did, you're never getting the code out of me."

"You gave it to me before," he pointed out.

"Only to prove a point to your big brother. No one can make me do anything that I don't want to. The same cannot be said for you," she said. "You'll do everything I say."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because you want my phone, and because I'll punish you if you don't do what you're supposed to. You remember the riding crop of course? As I heard, you have one of your own, normally just for you experiments, but I'm sure we can find other uses," she said.

"And if I said I wasn't interested?" Sherlock asked, sipping the last of his wine.

"You wouldn't be here if you weren't," she said. "Am I wrong? Just tell me yes or no," she said, with a false frown.

"No," he said.

"I'm not wrong," she prompted.

"You're not wrong," Sherlock said. He felt a pressure on his chest. He ignored it for the problem sitting across from him, swirling lilac ice cream off her spoon with her tongue. Later, he'd deal with the pressure later, not now.

"I didn't think so," Irene said. "You want to know something Sherlock?"

There was a long silence. Finally Sherlock had to speak simply because he knew she wouldn't until he did. The loser always spoke first, that kneaded him. "What?"

"Say, yes Ms. Adler. Go on, it's not hard."

"Yes. Ms. Adler," Sherlock said a bit forcefully.

"You weren't wrong, you did take my pulse. You weren't wrong about the chemistry of love," she said. "I just thought it wasn't as kind to tell you that I love you. But then we always hurt the ones we love, me more than others," she added. Her coy play was insufferable.

"I knew that already," Sherlock said.

"Yes, I know you know. But there's something else you need to know. You are never going to beat me. I know you're here to try and redeem yourself. It's only logical. You beat Jim, and now I'm all that's left, but you're not going to win. I'm not going to tell you where my camera phone is, and even if you find it, you're not going to be able to figure out the combination," she said. "But I wonder…"

Again, Sherlock had to speak. "Wonder what?" he asked through clamped teeth.

"If your brother will send someone to fetch you when he finds out, or if he'll just let you got as part of my payment. I'm curious to see how far brotherly attachment goes. I did want to take you with me when you lost the last time, but it wasn't the right time then."

"And it is now?"

"Obviously," Irene said.

"Enlighten me."

"You're here. No, you couldn't stand that I beat you. It's one thing for Jim to beat you. He's obsessive. He'd beat you but he'd keep coming back till one or both of you were dead."

"Obviously."

"Obviously, but I'm different, and that's why you can't beat me. I won. I don't need to gloat and I don't need to take trophies. I don't even need to come back to you. There's no second round with me, so you had to seek me out yourself. You'd never let a prize as good as me go, even though you lost. And that's while you'll keep losing. You need me to keep you. I don't need to keep you."

"But you will 'keep me', as you say," Sherlock said, wrinkling a nose a bit. Irene found that cute. "Because you love me."

"Yes," Irene said. "Because I am in love with you, and because you're so much fun. But none of this means that I trust you. I'm never going to trust you. You're hoping that I'll let down my guard down and then you'll be able to take my protection from me. But that's never going to happen, because I already know what game you're playing at. I'm going to try to break you, but I know you won't break, and if you do then you'll be boring and I'll get rid of you. Don't worry Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective in the funny hat; you're never going to be bored. We're just going to be competing from now until the end of time."

"No," Sherlock said. "I'm afraid for you, that I will walk away from this a winner."

"Whatever you say dear. It's all about the games for me, and as long as we can play I'm winning," she cooed. "Now," she said, finishing her ice cream. "Finish yours and we'll get going."

"Go where?"

"Home of course," Irene said. "I'm curious about Moriarty's nickname for you. I need to test it out for myself," she said. "Now, go on and finish," she said, sitting back to watch him eat his ice cream. He gave her a bored look, but did as he was told.

* * *

"Don't be scared," Irene breathed in his ear as she started to nibble down his jaw line.

"I don't get scared," Sherlock said, feeling her hands start to pull open his buttons and her fingertips ghost across the exposed skin.

"And your tummy is shaking because you're not scared?" She asked, placing her lips on his. Kisses, kisses he could deal with. He'd practiced with Molly until he'd gotten very good. He couldn't say that he was afraid of sex. It didn't interest him. He was nervous though, nervous was a good word. He didn't know what he was supposed to do. Well, he knew in theory, but not actually knowing he found to be very uncomfortable.

"What, no answer?" Irene asked, shifting her hips a bit from where she sat, just below his belt. "Just relax. I promise you're not going to hate this," she breathed into his mouth as she kissed him. "Someone's been practicing, whoever the lucky girl it, I'm jealous. Don't worry, this is just like that, a bit more messy, I'm afraid for you. But all you need is practice," she purred, starting to kiss down his neck and slowly down his chest. Her fingers worked at the same rhythm as the always hand, still unbuttoning his shirt.

"You can tell me if you get scared. Don't worry, I'll stop of you're too scared," she breathed and she kissed down the pale skin on his chest. He words did not make him feel better. Feelings, in the general sense were not very helpful. They got in the way of logic, of thinking, of useful things. He was not interested in an activity that was all about feeling.

"Just relax," she breathed. He close his eyes and bit the inside skin of his lower lip. Just relax.


	3. Chapter 3

"You're thinking again," Irene said, lightly twisting Sherlock's few light chest hairs with her long red nails. Her body was still pressed against him, as it had been for most of the night. He'd drift off to sleep, wake and find her in a different position, still twisting his chest hair as if she wasn't tired at all. Her body was at that moment settled tight against his left side.

"I am not yet sure how to classify this," he said, glancing over at her before closing his eyes. When he wasn't on a case he could sleep long hours just because he'd be too bored to do anything else. His body was tired like those off times, but his brain was on like he had a case. The fitful sleep was unhelpful, but Irene didn't seem like she was going to let him get up any time soon.

"What's to classify?" she asked, her eyes flicking up to him, though he couldn't see it.

"Sex," he said. "It's a form of physical contact, rougher than a hug, though it's certainly at least as exciting as a fight, with the release of adrenaline it can feel much the same after it's over," he said.

"Oh, you have got to stop thinking," Irene said, crawling on top of him. Sherlock's stomach clenched and trembled again at the feel of her overly soft skin of her breast brushed over his chest, and the way her hair tickled his thighs as she settled in on top of him.

"You held back earlier," Sherlock said.

"What, did you expect your first time to hurt?" Irene asked, smirking with amusement.

"With you? Yes," he said bluntly.

"That's because I wasn't playing, love. I was just testing. I needed to see if Jim's theory was right, which it was," she added, smirking when he scowled. Men were men no matter what the circumstances. "Besides, a touch of vanilla can be fun once in a while. Too much chocolate and you get bored."

Sherlock's brows arched in as he thought over her words. He either wasn't thinking well that evening (a frightening prospect) or she was talking about things he didn't understand, which was most likely. She noticed his expression and sighed heavily, shifted against him to get more comfortable.

"Let me be indelicate," she said, knowing this was an area that he had probably never bothered filing up his storage space with besides his first Playboy and some cursory cultural knowledge. "Normal sex can be fun sometimes, if take with moderation," she added.

"Oh," Sherlock said, suddenly getting it, before classifying the alternate meaning of the words 'chocolate' and 'vanilla' into his mental dictionary for later use. He was sure they'd come up again with Irene and there are no point being caught unaware again.

"Would you like to try another go?" Irene asked, starting to place soft kisses on his neck again. She certainly did like his neck. She seemed to lavish so much attention there, never leaving marks there (he had plenty of bruises from her lips and teeth on his stomach, which was making the way she laid on him in that moment a bit painful). She would spend time, her lips pressed to the skin and her tongue running over the skin on her neck as if she were tasting a rare delicacy.

"Are you asking me, or telling me?" Sherlock asked, curious now. He'd done research into the idea of dominatrix before he'd come, but it was different with Irene Adler, especially when Sherlock Holmes was involved. He wasn't sure what to expect. He didn't know yet if she'd treat him like her normal clients, or if she'd treat him differently.

"I'm asking," Irene said. "Would you like to try?" she asked. She bent her legs at the knees until her calf muscles were pressed to her thighs and her toes arched toward him before she started swinging her legs. She was happy. "Well?"

"I'm thinking," Sherlock said.

"Don't think, just answer. Do you want to try again?"

"I'm not actually sure," Sherlock said. He was feeling tired, bone tired from the past few days. He was curious too, and he was not about to allow himself to seem weak or as if he couldn't keep up with her. He was going to need to impress her to get what he wanted.

"You're tired," Irene said, her fingers reaching up to tangle in his hair. She pulled herself up by his hair so she could kiss him. Sherlock was less uncomfortable with kisses, though her reason for kissing him didn't quiet seem to compute in his mind. Was it just sentiment? Or was she planning on trying to conduct intercourse again? Or was she hoping he'd rise to the challenge? A smiled pressed to her lips. With her hair down she didn't look threatening at all, though he knew very well what she could do. "Sleep Sherlock, just sleep. There's still time before morning."

With that she closed her eyes and settled herself down on his chest as if she'd found the perfect place to sleep. Sherlock watched her for a long moment before he realized she was actually asleep. When he figured that out he carefully turned to his side, tipping her back onto the bed before settling back onto his back. There was no way he could sleep with a person laying on his lungs. He closed his eyes and allowed sleep to claim him.

* * *

The next time Sherlock awoke it was well into morning, though it was still dark in Irene's bedroom because of her thick dark curtains. He could still see daylight peaking around the edges of the curtains, but not enough to be obtrusive. Irene was once again pressed against his side, her fingers twisting in his chest hair. "Good morning, mon petit Holmes," Irene said, smiling up at him like a love struck schoolgirl.

"Morning," Sherlock said.

"Come now, you can do better than that," Irene said, her smile twisting just a bit into a smirk. She waited before her hand traveled down to one of the more painful bruises she'd left on him and starting to pinch.

"Good morning," Sherlock said, not quiet awake enough to deal with the woman and her games.

"Good," Irene said, sitting up and crawling over him to get out of bed. She grabbed her phone, sending a text. "Phone's a much more civilized than bell cords, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, sitting up and shifting his legs over the side of the bed, though he hesitated to climb out of the warm blankets.

"Not a morning person?" Irene asked.

"Not when I'm bored, no," Sherlock said and Irene laughed. She walked close to him and gripped his cheeks into a thoroughly ridiculous face before placing a kiss on his incredibly high left cheekbone.

"We'll fix that love, I promise," she said and walked off to the bathroom. Within a moment Sherlock heard water running. He was just starting to consider curling back up in the blankets when Irene came out and grabbed his hands. "Up, up," she said, dragging him out of bed and pushing him to the shower.

"Am I going first?" Sherlock asked.

Irene laughed. "No, we're going together," she said, nudging him into her thoroughly modern shower with the extensive number of shower heads from both the walls and ceiling. She reached over to the touch screen, regulating the shower to flowing simply from the ceiling, as well as the appropriate temperature, before starting music.

"Shostakovich?" Sherlock asked as he was tugged into the shower. It was big enough to fit six people, but Irene pressed herself right against him like there was no room at all.

"It felt like a good morning for Russians," Irene said, grabbing a sponge and started to add soap and lather Sherlock's body.

"Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk?" Sherlock asked.

"It felt like a good morning for Russians," Irene said. "Stand still," she added, affection in her voice.

"Why are we doing this? You're not trying to conserve water," Sherlock said, sneering a bit.

"Honestly, you are very dense sometimes. It's something couples do," Irene said. "People who love each other, or just people in relationships," she added.

"Are we in love now?" Sherlock asked. "A couple?"

"You feel something for me, mon petit Holmes, whether or not you want to say it," Irene said. "And you already know how I feel about you. As neither of us will be engaging in sex outside of with each other and plan to live together, yes most people would say we are now a couple."

"Are we?" Sherlock asked.

"Not in the traditional sense, but then we will never be traditional people," Irene said, moving around to wash his back. "Oh, always so tense," she cooed, starting to work on massaging his shoulders. After a moment she moved around front again, pressing a button on her shower control so hot water blasted him squarely in the back.

"What happened to being a dominatrix?" Sherlock asked, quirking a brow. He simply stood still and let her wash him, not needing to protest.

"I will always misbehave, Sherlock Holmes. Just because I want you doesn't mean that I'm not going to train you to be a very good and loyal pet, which you will be so long as I have my camera phone to barter with."

"You think I'm going to stay if I'm not going to win?" Sherlock asked.

"I know you are. You can't stand to be bored, and as long as you're with me, you're always playing. I'm you're ultimate puzzle, not Moriarty," she said. "Because I make your heart go thrum-thrum-thrum, and he can't," she smirked.

"You're very sure of yourself," Sherlock noted.

"Kneel down a bit so I can get your hair," she said, waiting for him to comply before speaking again. She lathered a bit of shampoo into her hands and started to work it into his hair. "I am sure of myself, but not unjustly. You know that or you wouldn't be here, and you just can't stand a puzzle to go unsolved. Jim told me about your little stunt with the Cabbie, even after I read it on your doctor's blog. Jim couldn't stand not to see everything, and you're addicted to the challenge," she said.

"It's much more fun to play a game with a competent opponent," Sherlock said.

"You charmer," Irene tittered. "I love your hair this was. Yes, we will be keeping this," she said, starting to wash the lather out of his hair.

"Why do you have my shampoo?" Sherlock asked, noticing she had the brand of high end shampoo and conditioner he preferred, a brand that wasn't even sold in France.

"I had a hunch when Jim stopped calling me. Besides, what better way for you to get to me than to fake your own death for the entire world to see?" She asked.

"Did you often speak to Moriarty?"

"You think you're the only one who gets bored. I was a way to pass his time between his little ventures."

"Did you-"

"What? Did I have sex with him? No, I'm afraid he wasn't interested in what I could provide," she said. "He wasn't one to get his hands dirty. You aren't either, to a point, but you do love running around and getting all hot and sweaty. Sex wouldn't be too far a leap for you," she said. "Why? Scared of having to share?"

"Just curious."

"Well, you can be just curious all you want, Sherlock Holmes. Just remember I'm still the one in control," she said. "Stand up," she ordered, now that she was done cleaning him. "It's your turn to reciprocate," she said.

"Dull," Sherlock said, taking the sponge and lathering soap as well. He applied the sponge to her body, but he, almost in exact opposite to her, cleaned with short scrubby strokes as opposed to the long, loving one's she'd provided for his body.

"No, no," Irene said, with an exasperated sigh. "You have so much to learn, but then I have so much time to teach you in," she said, grabbing his hands. "Like this," she said, guiding his hands for the right amount of pressure, length of stroke and attentiveness toward her body. It quickly became a new type of play, almost like their activities the previous night. His brows knit together in concentration, focusing on a task that he had yet to master. Her hands guided his journey as his long fingers touched her through the sponge. It took much longer than it took her to wash him.

"You think you can wash my back without my guidance?" she asked.

Sherlock snorted and moved around to her back, starting to wash the same way he'd done with the rest of her. It was easy, now that he knew what he was doing. When he finished he stood back for a moment, just observing her body.

"What? Do you need me to kneel down too?" Irene asked, laughter in her tone.

"No," Sherlock said, starting on her hair. He could have been ruthless and pretend like he didn't know what she wanted, but he had more than a good enough idea from how she'd guided his hands. He also wasn't eager for another pinch. It still took longer to wash her hair hand it took to was his, simply due to the amount of it.

"Wrap your arms around me," Irene ordered why he still stood behind her. Sherlock did as he was ordered, having to bend down and practically wrap himself around her to do it. For just a moment he could imagine that this was what it would be like if he was in a normal relationship: wrapping himself around a woman he cared for. He could understand it for just a moment: that appeal, that want. And then the moment passed and Irene turned off the water.

She got out first, tamping her feet on the fuzzy bathroom rug and getting equally fuzzy towels. They left each other to their own drying. Irene left, supposedly to get ready and allowed Sherlock a chance at the mirror and hair gel (the brand he preferred). He came out, found no Irene, but a pair of pants, trousers and a shirt on the bed. He proceeded to get dressed, done except for buttoning the shirt when Irene returned.

She was in that short, slinky, silky blue dressing gown again, and she'd braided her long dark hair which down hung over one shoulder. Sherlock glanced up and her before starting to work on his buttons. "Oh no, mon petit Holmes," she said, walking around the bed and batting his hands away from his buttons. She proceeded to unbutton the two he's just buttoned. "No, I want you like this," she said, holding his hands out so she could look him up and down.

"Is that what you're wearing for the day?" Sherlock asked, raising a brow.

"No, it's what I'm wearing for breakfast," she said, taking his hand and tugging him out. "Come," she said, though it hardly would have mattered as she was dragging him out like a limo rag doll anyway.

There was a table set for the two of them in the living room, and only a love seat for them to sit on. Irene sank into her seat, settling against Sherlock as soon as he'd sat down. She moved her hands about the breakfast table, tending to her own needs and allowing him to do the same. The only indication she made of him (besides being pressed against him) was to pour him a cup of coffee, but she allowed him to doctor his drink himself.

He found, much to his surprise that it was easy to have a quiet morning breakfast with Irene Adler. She rested against his right side, her legs curled up in her seat, munching on jam and toast while she read the news over his shoulders. He absentmindedly ate whatever he'd put on his plate from the wide spread, while scrolling through the news on a propped up tablet. He vaguely thought that this breakfast wasn't unlike the one's he'd at Baker Street, with each person going about their own business in proximity to each other.

Though these thoughts conjured up the image of John lying against him like Irene Adler was now. It was so absurd that it was almost funny. John, if he simply tripped into Sherlock (the only way John would ever lay against him like that) would just sigh with exasperation and get up. If there were witnesses to the scene and not the incident that caused it (the tripping) John would say he wasn't Sherlock's boyfriend and go on with his morning. John was very predictable, after all.

"Oh look, you're still making the news," Irene said, pointing over his shoulder to an article, bringing it up on her tablet to read over his shoulder. Sherlock glanced at it. Apparently John was still trying to clear his name, this time with an interview.

"I told him not to do this," Sherlock grumbled.

"He loves you," Irene said simply, slipping her fingers up into his hair again, as if she simply couldn't stop her hands from being draw there. "I think you should keep your little moustache by the way," she added.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said, only half minded about her words as he looked over the article. He looked at it for a moment later before switching to something else.

"I was reading that," Irene said.

"You can read it later," Sherlock said, deciding he'd rather read about anything other than John grieving like he was. He knew that John had cared about him, loved him even in a way no other person ever had. At the same time, Sherlock had never been able to imagine just how terrible John's grief was. It made him want to run back to London, or to call John and tell him the truth. Yet neither was possible. Any contact he could make with John would lead to Mycroft finding him. Mycroft would bring him right home if he found out. Even if Sherlock could get to John around Mycroft, John wouldn't be able to act well enough to fool Mycroft and it would all be blown anyway.

"You're right," Irene said.

"You're giving in easily today," Sherlock noted, a bit wary.

"That's because I know what we're doing today, and you don't," Irene said.

"What are we doing?" Sherlock asked.

"Shopping," Irene said.

"Oh joy," Sherlock muttered. His clothes from Yves Saint Laurent consisted of two suits and a pair of leather pants. He'd known she would drag him back out again, but he didn't think it would be any more pleasant than the previous day. "When?"

"Once you finish eating all of your plate," Irene said. "You're still too skinny," she told him poking his side.

"Fine," Sherlock said, going back to eating his toast.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't a fan of being wrong. It hadn't been quiet so bad at Gucci because he wasn't unused to the clothes and had no problem picking what he wanted. Even Versace had been okay, though Sherlock knew Irene was picking shirts similar to what Moriarty had worn while on trial. Sherlock wasn't a fan of being wrong, and he'd thought that shopping couldn't be much worse than the previous day, even if it dragged on for a long time. He was surprised that it was worse.

He looked at himself in the mirror as the attendant straightened his suit jacket for its fitting. Sherlock glanced down, and the Westwood logo shined up at him from the happily gleaming gold buttons. It was hateful.

"You look positively delicious," Irene said. She'd stuck with English today, knowing not to push him too far. He'd already made one man cry today, and because he was being particularly uncooperative she needed as many attendants as she could get.

"I'm not going to wear this," he informed her.

"Like the other ten suits I'm buying for you?" she asked with a smirk. He'd said he wasn't wearing every single suit she'd had them fit him into from this store. This was not the eleventh, including a dark purple shirt and a plain black suit. It reminded him of what he'd normally wear, which just made it all the more hateful.

"I'm not wearing this," he said again.

"Yes you will," Irene said. "If I saw you will," she added.

"Why could I possible need a near dozen Westwood suits?" Sherlock hissed.

"Because they're not all for the outside world to see," Irene said, coming to stand behind him as the attendants rushed away to get something (Sherlock didn't care enough to observe what). She straightened his jacket and rested her hands on his sides, looking at them both in the mirror. Then she eased her hands down to rest on his posterior and he actually snarled.

"I suggest you remove your hands," he warned.

"Or you'll hurt me? No no, this isn't how this works," she said.

"You can't stop me," he pointed out.

"No, but I'm never going to give you anything if you strike back," she informed him.

"You've already told me that you have no plans on giving me your camera phone."

"And I don't," she said. "But that doesn't mean that I won't give you a bit of information here and again to give to your brother for if you ever want to quit and slink back home."

"I'm not going to run away," Sherlock said, but he was suddenly interested. He wasn't just playing for the phone now, she'd feed him a bit of information now and then, something to buffer Mycroft for when he inevitably did find out. "What kind of information?"

"Things your brother's not going to get for a long, long time," Irene said.

"You really have enough information to play him for the rest of both your lives?" Sherlock asked.

"I can use some information to get some other information if I need, though the biggest pay out has happened already, now it's just to be sure that I continue to be protected," she purred.

"You are very clever," Sherlock said.

"I'll take that as you mean it," Irene said, stepping up on the box and leaning on her toes so she could kiss his cheek.

"I don't need any suits from here," Sherlock said.

"Trust me, you will," Irene said before looking at the man who was desperately wanting them to pay and get out. She sent him along to get the bill. "This is enough for today," she said. "Come, escort me home," she ordered. He got down, giving her a nasty look, but still offered his arm in escort. "Good boy," she said.

* * *

When they returned from shopping there was a quiet little dinner set for them. They ate, Irene engaging him in talks of a few cases that had popped up in the news. Most of them were dreadfully dull, but one recent one was making Sherlock's fingers itch to go back to London… not that anyone would work with him at the moment when everyone thought he was dead. That was a problem with faking his death, one that was weighed out by being assured he wouldn't be forced to wear that ridiculous hat.

The meal went by easily, but the second it was over, Irene was tugging him upstairs by his tie. She didn't take him to her room, but to a room down the hall: her playroom. The room itself was tasteful, larger devices that couldn't be put away were covered to keep off dust. Still, there was a properly made bed that was assured to not be near as soft or plush as the one Irene kept in her actual bedroom.

"When I call you to here," Irene said, twirling around bit before she settled herself on a leather bench. "You will come dressed in one of five of those suits I picked today. I'll tell you which ones tomorrow, because you're already dressed today."

"Who says I will come?" Sherlock asked.

"You're quite the contrary cat aren't you? Asking the same question over and over with different words?" Irene asked, thoroughly amused. "We already know why you came here. We already know you're going to try and make me let my guard down, and we also already know that you're terrible at this. There isn't a submissive bone in your body. I'm fine with that, I love a good challenge," she said.

"So do I," Sherlock said and Irene smirked.

"Come here doll, we're going to try something simple," she said, guiding him over to the bench.

"What am I doing?" he asked.

"Just bend over, grab on," she said, bending him down some, rubbing her hands up and down his back until he did as he was told and relaxed his shoulders. "Good boy, just hold on," she said, walking away. Her heels clicked against the marble floor as she went. "No peaking," she added just about the time Sherlock was starting to turn and see what she was doing. Grumbling, he turned his head away.

"What's taking so long?" He asked when he heard nothing for a while.

"You need to learn to be more patient," Irene said. "Ah, found it," she said. She clicked back over to him. "You've been very bad today, you know," she said when she was right behind him. Before he could react, her favorite riding crop came whistling down across his shoulders.

"Ah," escaped his lips before he clamped his mouth shut.

"Here's how the game goes, you say "Please Mrs. Adler, stop," and I stop… No, that's too hard for you, all you have to say is "Please," you say it twice and I'll stop," she said before she brought the riding crop whistling down on his shoulders.

Sherlock jerked away from the blow, gripping onto the bench. Again she brought the riding crop down across his back. The suit jacket and shirt provided some buffer, but not much. Irene was going slowly. She would whip him once and wait for a minute until even his shoulder untensed and then it would come down again, in a different place, just a bit harder. Then she would wait again, wait until his body wasn't expecting it and then he'd feel the hard slap across his back.

Sherlock remembered the first time he'd met John Watson he'd spent the afternoon whipping a dead body with a riding crop. He also vaguely remembered Irene Adler smacking him with her riding crop before, and the sting he'd felt even past the drugged haze. This was different. It was a patient kind of punishment, giving him time to think before he was hurt again, to imagine the hit as he continued to feel the stinging pain. She could do this all evening. It wasn't tiring for her at all. It was just for him, hunched over in and uncomfortable manner, his back would have been aching even without the whipping, though the whipping made his back feel like it was on fire.

"Enough," Sherlock hissed. Another strike came down across his back.

"You know how to make this stop," Irene said, bringing a second strike across his shoulders at the place where she'd started, just to prove a point. She was doing this not to break his skin, but also not to provide a pleasant sting. His back just hurt; there was no play in this, not for him. It was a only a game of how long he could stand it.

_You came to be her sub, now just do it. You'll have to beg sometime,_ he told himself. Still, he let two more lashes come across his back before he truly resolved to do it and three more past that to make a sound. It took one more lash before the words came out of his mouth.

"Please," he said. Another blow whistled down across his left shoulder, crossing a couple of wounds she'd laid down already.

"Please?" she asked, pausing.

"Please," he said again, closing his eyes. There, two, that should be enough. His shoulders hunched, relaxing though he was too sore to simply stand straight up. He gasped, unprepared when the new blow came. "I said please!" he snapped. Another blow came down, this time across his buttocks, which had been previously neglected. He jumped.

"Yes, but you didn't say it right," Irene said, striking another blow across his posterior, not giving him near enough time to think before again striking him.

"How, how, tell me how?" Sherlock snapped, stunned that he didn't understand the rules. She gave two more successive strikes across his buttocks.

"Say "please, please", beg me for it, Sherlock Holmes." The riding crop came down again. "Beg," she ordered and started a series of blows all over his back, buttocks, and even upper legs.

Sherlock was so stunned by the assault that it took him a moment to get his head together enough to form words. "Please, please!" he shouted, not aware he'd been so loud until she stopped, then he hunched even more over the bench, desperate to stay up.

"Hmm… too bad, I thought you'd go for longer," Irene said, guiding the end of the riding crop from his left knee all the ways up his leg, buttocks and back, all of which quivered involuntarily under the touch. She slipped the tip up over his shoulder and under his chin, turning him to look at her. He was panting. "You asked me if I was going easy on you, didn't I? Come now, speaking in words."

"Yes," he gasped out.

"Good," she said, taking his face in her hands, pressing her riding crop's handle into his left cheek in the process. She leaned down and kissed both of his eyelids. "Good boy. Now," she said, setting her prop down on the bench and hauling Sherlock Holmes up. "Come to bed," she said.

He let her lead his out, trying to straighten out as he walked to her nearby bedroom. She shut the door and tugged him over to the bed, pushing him down to sit on the bed. There was a larger intake of breath through his nose.

"Tired?" she asked, sounding sympathetic.

"Yes, sleep will be welcome," Sherlock said, starting to unbutton his jacket.

"You poor dear," Irene said, helping him get out of his jacket and unbutton his shirt buttons. "You know…" she said, trailing off.

"What?"

"I think one day I will have you on a leash," she said, pushing the detective down by his shoulders onto the bed. He gasped again, especially when she slid her knee up between his thighs. "You thought I was just going to let you go to bed? Oh, poor thing," she cooed, starting to place her soft, tasting kisses on his neck.

"What?" Sherlock asked, not quiet able to put the words together.

"I'm not going easy on you tonight," she said, pushing him down into the mattress, enough to make him hurt even though the bed was incredibly soft. His back burned, but she still planned to ride him. She still had to teach him, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

When Sherlock awoke in the morning it felt like his back had actually been set on fire. Everything from knees to shoulders, whether it had been struck by Irene Adler's favorite riding crop, hurt. His mind slowly dragged out of sleep. He was on his back. He shifted a bit and gasped. No, moving was a terrible bad idea.

"Good morning, mon petit Holmes," the woman said from where she lay on his chest, causing his injured flesh to be pushed even more against the bed's surface. She lead down, turning a bit of hair behind her ear and she kissed him. In his mind he was aware that she'd gone easy on him, as far as she went. The sex had been rougher than their first night, and his back hurt all over, but she'd yet to drag out any of her other devices. If he'd been able to keep his pride in check, he wouldn't have hurt so much. But then pride got him into her bed in the first place.

"Morning," he breathed. "Good morning," he added when she gave him a strict look.

"Good boy, learning already," she said, rubbing his stomach as if he were a dog. She laughed and crawled over him off of the bed to go start the shower, texting down for breakfast as she went. "Don't bother to try and sit up until I get there," she called from the bathroom.

Sherlock didn't listen to her. It hurt just to move, but he wasn't going to stay laying on his injured back. He wasn't going to do what she told him to. He felt like a petulant child. The more he tried to sit up the more it hurt and the more impossible it became. Then he tried rolling over, but his back was so aggravated that he couldn't even get up the energy to throw himself gracelessly from the bed.

He'd been hurt worse before, he was sure. He just couldn't think of a worse time. Irene Adler was good, targeting the muscles to make him hurt worse. Her object had been to make him remember for a long time what he would get for even hesitating to obey her. _You're supposed to be her submissive, act like it._ He firmly told himself. Too bad his self didn't listen. He started to edge closer and closer to the edge, gasping in pain as he rubbed his back against the sheets. He planned to fall on his hands and knees and stand up from there.

"What are you doing?" Irene asked, watching him move of the bed at a turtle's pace, gasping and grunting all the way.

"Getting up, what do it look like?" Sherlock asked through gritted teeth.

"Self-harm, for no reason," Irene said, walking to the bed and grabbing his arm and dragging him up to sit on the edge of the bed. Quickly like a ripping off a bandage, but it let Sherlock reeling. She'd really done a good job, and at the end she'd focused exclusively on his buttocks and back of his thighs: the places where all his weight was resting and he more brutal attacks had been. Irene dragged him up to standing, and though his legs screamed at him for the privilege, he felt grateful.

"Come," Irene said. "Put your arm around my shoulders," she said, helping him shuffle into the shower.

"Shostakovich again?" Sherlock asked.

"Sometimes I like a bit of consistency," Irene said.

"Symphony no. 6," Sherlock said, gasping when she dragged him under the water and his nerves lit up in a new type of pain as the hard, hot drops lashed his back. "Are you planning to brutalize me again this evening?" he asked.

"Well, only if you don't do as you're told," Irene said simply. "Now, standstill, we need to loosen up your muscles," she said, making him stand facing the back wall. She reached out a pressed the control pad and suddenly strong jets of hot water were pounding into Sherlock's back. "Just wrap your arms around me," Irene said, standing in front of him.

Sherlock, with shaking arms that made him angry, held onto Irene tightly to keep him up. The warmth of the water and the pressure did start to help his pain filled muscles relax, though he still felt that fire in his nerves now from the previous night's abuse and the new attacks from the hot streams.

"Shh, shh, easy now love, it's okay. You'll learn, and then I won't have to hurt you so bad," Irene soothed, rubbing one of his arms.

"And if I don't learn?" Sherlock asked through gritted teeth.

"You will. There's only so much pain a person can stand, especially when they're in your position."

"And if I don't?" he asked again.

"Then I will hurt you worse and worse until you do learn," Irene said, leaning up on her toes to kiss his cheek. "Don't see me as your enemy, Sherlock Holmes. I'm your opponent, but this is just a game. I'm just a rival. I'm also just helping you. Feel free to resent me for it, but this game will never be fun if you're not up to form."

"What? Am I not acquiesced to pain enough yet?"

"No, you're trying to act as my submissive, but you're terrible at it. There's not a submissive bone in your body. I doubt you'll ever be a true sub. You are Sherlock Holmes, after all… no, I'm teaching you to simply be a better acting. It's called method acting, love. You're going to remember all the pain and humiliation. You'll remember it and you'll only be able to stop it by doing as I say. And you're going to remember those moments of humility and defeat and when you do, you will be able to incorporate it into a new act, and then the games really will begin."

"It's nice to know someone has faith in me," Sherlock said, a bit of humor in his voice.

"Oh, lots of people have faith in you, your blogger, for instance. No, I merely want you at your best. I need real danger in my games or they're not fun."

"Just like Moriarty," Sherlock said.

"No, just like you, but you know that. Jim wanted more danger than play, and it was almost never danger to himself, always to someone else. That's what he got off on, other people's pain. He's a sexual sadist, not a dominant," she said.

"And you are?"

"A dominant?"

"How would you classify me?" Sherlock asked.

"A masochist, and a dominant. You ever figure out what you want in bed, it'll be a woman who you can guide into hurting you," Irene said, starting to place her soft, tasting kisses on his neck again.

"You seem very drawn to my neck," Sherlock commented a bit redundantly.

"It's a good neck, my favorite," Irene said, blowing on his skin to make him shiver and then wince with pain. "Shh, love, shh, just relax," she said, stopping the pounding spray from the walls. "Let me wash you and then we'll treat your back," she assured him.

Sherlock let her. He certainly couldn't have done it. He let her wash his front and back and he knelt down so she could wash his hair. Her fingers didn't have the long strokes from before. She was tender, careful.

"This is how you show love, is it?" he asked. "You hurt someone until they're dependant on you and then tend to them like a nursemaid."

"No, just you… but then I've never loved a man before," Irene said.

"A woman?"

"Not like you. We are a rare breed, you and I… and Jim, your brother too, but not in a fun way," she said.

"You keep calling him Jim."

"It annoyed him so much, but he never told me to stop. It was cute," she said fondly.

"Was he smitten with you?" Sherlock asked.

Irene laughed, loud and hard. "Jim? Smitten with me? Oh, that's droll. No, I think we were too each… as close as it would come to friends."

"Friends," Sherlock said, hardly believing it. Irene just nodded.

"He would have loved to be your friend, but you were… what was it he said? "On the side of the angels"," she said, doing her best Moriarty imitation, which made Sherlock chuckle.

"There are few," Sherlock agreed.

"Your blogger is one," Irene said.

"What? John?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Not with brains or plans or puzzles, but he is. He seems normal, because he knows how to seem, unlike you or me. He's made an art of it… seeming. But no man walked into a war and then walks after you. He's not brains, but he's like us as well… damaged beyond repair… though he can fit into normal society. He'll have a wife and child and he'd be the world's second consulting detective if he could figure out how to make it earn money," Irene mused, kneading Sherlock's scalp.

"Is that how you see John?"

"How do you see him?" Irene asked. "What, am I wrong?"

"No," Sherlock said, not even needing to think about it. John Watson was a singularly bizarre animal, one that enjoyed Sherlock Holmes and his puzzles and his games and yet could still be part of the normal person world… truly a rare animal. "He is one of us," Sherlock said, the words making it click in his brain.

"You miss him," Irene said. "You'll call him once your brother figures out to leave you alone," she said.

Sherlock didn't answer.

Irene finished washing him off. She got out and carefully patted him dry before leading him out to the bed. She had him lie on his front on the bed before going back to her own shower. He could still hear Shostakovich coming from the bathroom.

"I'm to tend to you," said Amelia from the doorway. She walked in with bottle of lotion, aloe most likely.

"I thought you were working on breakfast," Sherlock said.

"I do whatever the mistress requires," Amelia said simply. She set the bottle on the nightstand, her eyes casting over his body once. Sherlock felt annoyed, most because he couldn't cover himself and really couldn't stop the woman from touching him.

_Erotic humiliation may take the form of both verbal and non-verbal humiliation. Irene Adler partakes in verbal belittlement, deprivation of privacy, discipline, dress codes (Westwood in particular, therefore specific from person to person), public to semi-public humiliation (fitting in with dress codes), embarrassment, and financial domination, as well as subjecting her sub to being touched and manhandled by other persons. What other forms of erotic humiliation Irene Adler takes part in has yet to be seen, requires further study._

Sherlock allowed himself to be distracted as Amelia started to spread the aloe on his back. The smell was strong in his nose, but it was easy to ignore, even though the way she kneaded the aloe into his back made his muscles twinge with pain. What he could not ignore was her moving to his posterior. He did not gasp, or move his head from where it and settled on his arms. He merely shifted his gaze to Irene who was now standing in the bathroom door way in her robe.

"Feeling better, love?" Irene asked, smirking. She knew he wasn't comfortable with hands on his bottom, hers or anyone else's. He certainly wasn't comfortable with a woman massaging his buttocks, especially not while Irene Adler looked on. She could tell his by the glare he didn't bother to hide. Amelia moved lower, completely professional and Sherlock relaxed once more, going back to his thoughts.

"Should I bring breakfast up here, madam?" Amelia asked once she finished.

"Yes, I think so," Irene said, going to her vanity and starting to brush her hair. She could see from the mirror that Sherlock's eyes were on her again. She ignored him, brushing her hair and braiding it back. Amelia returned and left with the breakfast tray before Irene even finished.

When she did finish she pushed the tray over to the bed. She took Sherlock's pillow, but gave him a towel and plate of food to eat in bed before getting her own bed. Amelia would change the sheets later, but there was no point in making a worse mess than they absolutely had to that day.

"What are we doing today?" Sherlock asked.

"Going for a walk," Irene said, slipping her legs under the blankets and settling herself against the pillows with her plate in hand.

"Just a walk?" Sherlock asked in disbelief.

"Well, during the day. This evening we're going to have a bit more fun."

"Fun like last night?"

"Well, it will only hurt if you don't do what I say. If you do, then it shouldn't be so bad."

"What's this evening?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing difficult, don't worry."

"You say 'don't worry' too much," Sherlock said, starting on his toast. He was propped up on one elbow as he ate.

"Yes, because you shouldn't worry," Irene said simply. "You do it too much."

"No I don't," Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose.

"Is this going to devolve into a childish argument?"

"Are you going to keep insinuating falsehoods?"

"A childish argument with big words is no less childish," Irene said before starting into her eggs.

"And a conversation with large words that isn't childish is what we're having now," Sherlock said.

Irene grinned. "You're such a boy."

"What does that mean?"

"It means for all your intelligence and gifts, you're still a human being. Get used to it. You're never going to be a higher power."

"You said I was the first time we met," Sherlock pointed out, something of a smile touching his lips.

"I said you believed yourself to be a higher power, never said you were one, though I imagine you are the type that likes to be worshipped. Do you want me to worship you?"

"Are you even capable of worshipping anything?" He asked with a quirked brow.

"I'm a very good actress, though I might worship your neck with kisses later if you put me in the right mood."

"Sexual word play is hardly original or clever," Sherlock scoffed.

"It's not wordplay," Irene said, leaning down and placing a kiss on Sherlock's neck. "This is mine and I like that," she said, her tongue flicking out to catch a taste of him before she went back to finishing her breakfast.

"Just a walk?" Sherlock asked, not believing her.

"Yes, just a walk," Irene said, finishing her food and dropping her plate on the cart, having to crawl over Sherlock to do it. She reached down, running her finger over his back. "There, all dry," she said, getting up and going to pick clothes for him.

Sherlock finished his food and stayed on his stomach for a bit longer, not wanting to move when he wasn't hurting as bad as he could. Irene left him alone to get dressed as she headed to find her own outfit. Sherlock finally did move and was pleased to find not Westwood being what she'd set out. He had to get dressed on his own, which meant having to grab onto one of the bed posts, and pulling on his trousers was particularly annoying to his injury.

He kept his noises of pain to himself. He wasn't going to be beaten by the woman. He was injured, yes, and sore. He could deal with it. When she came out in her nice suit dress he offered her his arm and let her lead him out. Just a walk, that was all.

* * *

The walk hadn't been comfortable, neither had dinner been comfortable. Sitting wasn't easy for him. He knew she'd make it worse that evening. That was setting and ugly stone in his stomach that made eating difficult. When she wasn't pushing him he could notice how not right he felt, like pieces of him were too jagged. Sentiment, feelings, those weren't his things. He knew something was wrong, but he didn't know how to explain it or how to deal with it. Mainly he ignored it, but it was becoming harder when he wasn't clashing with Irene. Dinner conversation was hard for him. It always had been, but it was particularly draining this evening. He was thankful when Irene finally brought it to a close.

"You will change for the evening," Irene said, standing up. "Just suit pants," she added. "From one of the five suits I picked for play time," she added, have sectioned off a part of his wardrobe for 'play only'. "Go," she ordered. Sherlock hesitated for a moment as if to show her that she didn't own him. Then he got up and went. He'd probably earn another lash from that, but it didn't matter.

He went to the room he shared with Irene, finding a pair of black suit pants, Westwood. It was like Jim Moriarty was wrapped around him. That thought alone made him shutter. Sometimes Sherlock still couldn't get Moriarty's last moments out of his head. He wasn't a squeamish man, but watching Moriarty kill himself simply to Sherlock to jump off that building was just…

Sherlock was self destructive. When he didn't have something to do, he'd indulge in cocaine, or he had when he was younger. When on a case he'd do anything to solve his puzzle, even throw himself into very dangerous situations that included bombs in pools, fighting famous assassins and sword fighting. He was James Moriarty, he really was, and watching the consulting criminal put a bullet in his own body had shocked Sherlock terribly. He just hadn't realized how badly it affected him until now.

James Moriarty was dead, his favorite and most hated rival, the man who could destroy his whole world for fun, the man who shoved Irene Adler into his life. Somehow it was that last one that rubbed him the most raw. He couldn't explain it yet, and he didn't have time to truly think about the why. He had a date in the play room that was no down going to end up with him actually bleeding if he didn't do what Irene wanted.

He should just do what she wanted, but he simply couldn't give in. It felt like he was giving something away.

He puzzled on what that meant: giving something away. He puzzled on it as he walked into the playroom. "Now, will you tell me what we're doing."

"Parle français, mon chéri," (Speak French, dear,) Irene said, walking over to him. "Viens par ici," (Here, come,) she ordered, guiding him over to stand under a bar. It had been raised so that if he raised his arm he could wrap his hand around it. Irene slapped a handcuff on his left wrist. "Lève les bras." (Arms up) He complied and she snapped the second cuff around his right wrist, the short chain resting over the bar. "Tu devrais t'accrocher, tes jolis poignets seront moins abîmés" (You should grab on, won't cut your pretty wrists up so much,) she said.

Sherlock shot her an annoyed look. "Boring," he muttered, grabbing the bar. A blow whistled down across his shoulders. "What?" He snapped. Another blow came down across the upper right arm.

"Je t'ai dit de parler en français," (I said to speak French,) Irene said.

"And you'll beat me if I don't?" Sherlock asked. Yes, boring. Two sharp smacks cracked across the flesh of his right shoulder.

"Parle en français, et ce sera tellement plus simple," (Speak French, and this will go so much easier,) she told him. "C'est compris?" (Understood?)

Sherlock gave her a cold look. "Oui," he said. He was supposed to be a sub. He was supposed to give in.

"Sherlock Holmes," Irene said, shifting her stance so that she'd be able to apply more force to her blows. "En public, tu t'exprimeras uniquement en français. De même en présence d'invités. Tu t'adresseras toujours à Amelia en français. A quiconque d'autre qu'à moi, tu parleras en français, et seulement lorsque je t'en donnerai la permission. Est-ce bien clair?" (You will speak only French when you are out in public. You will speak only French when we are with guests. You will speak only French to Amelia. You will speak only French to everyone but me, and you will only do so with my permission. Is this understood?)

Sherlock glowered at her. He didn't say anything and Irene started a series of hits on his lower back. His already aggravated skin quickly hurt just as bad as they had when their last playroom session ended the night before.

"Est-ce bien clair?" (Is this understood?) She asked, a growl in her voice.

"Oui," Sherlock said.

"Oui, madame Adler," (Yes, Mistress Adler,) she instructed. She slapped him once with the crop on his left shoulder.

"Oui, madame Adler," (Yes, Mistress Adler,) Sherlock snarled. Irene slapped the same spot again.

"Pas d'impertinences, pas ici. Les conséquences seront fâcheuses si tu l'oublies. Dans cette pièce, tu ne me regarderas jamais dans les yeux. Tu t'adresseras toujours à moi en tant que maîtresse Irène/ madame Adler, et rien d'autre. Est-ce bien compris?" (None of your sass, not in here. There will be consequences if you forget. You will not look me in the eyes when we are in this room. You will refer to me as Mistress Adler at all times, and nothing else. Do you understand?) She snapped the crop across his buttocks, though not hard, before he could say anything.

"Oui, madame Adler." (Yes, Mistress Adler.)

"Répète moi donc ce que tu dois faire," (Repeat back to me what you will do) Irene said. She waited a moment before snapping the crop harder across his buttocks.

"Je parlerai toujours en français en dehors de cette maison et en présence de quiconque d'autre que toi. Je parlerai en anglais uniquement sur ta permission. Je ne te regarderai pas dans les yeux. Je m'adresserai à toi en tant que madame Adler, toujours," (I will speak only French when I am in the presence of anyone else, or when I am outside of the house. I will only speak English with express permission from you. I will not look you in the eyes. I will refer to you as Mistress Adler at all times) he said. He gasped, not expected the barrage of blows that followed.

"Où me suis-je trompé?" (What did I get wrong?) He asked, earning him a hard slap on the outside of his right leg.

"Je ne veux t'entendre poser aucune question. Et tu me feras le plaisir de me vouvoyer," (You do not ask questions, and you refer to me with 'vous' or as Mistress Adler at all times,) she said. She brought the crop across his shoulders twice when he glared at her: once for sass and once for looking her in the eyes. "Tu as la mémoire courte. Répète tes règles." (You quickly forget your rules. Repeat.)

"Je parlerai toujours en français en dehors de cette maison et en présence de quiconque d'autre que toi. Je parlerai en anglais uniquement sur ta permission. Je ne te regarderai pas dans les yeux. Je m'adresserai à toi en tant que maîtresse Irène/ madame Adler, et utiliserai le vouvoiement," (I will speak only French when I am in the presence of anyone else, and when I'm outside of the house. I will only speak English with your express permission. I will not look you in the eyes. I will refer to you as Mistress Adler at all times, or refer to you with 'vous') he said. This time he was prepared for the barrage of lashes he received.

" 'Vous', dis-le," ('Vous', say it) Irene ordered.

"Tu," Sherlock said, gasping. "Damn," he hissed when she started to focus her attacks on his bottom exclusively for a moment, though one lash snapped across his shoulders.

"Pas d'anglais," (No English,) she ordered. "Maintenant, dis 'vous'." (Now, say 'vous'.")

"Tu," he said again, earning another hard smack across the bottom.

"Vous," she said.

"Tu,"

"Vous," she said, her slaps getting hard.

Sherlock gasped, and finally came to his senses a bit. "V-vous," he gasped.

"Répète tes règles." (Repeat your rules.)

"Je parlerai toujours en français en dehors de cette maison et en présence de quiconque d'autre que vous. Je parlerai en anglais uniquement sur votre permission. Je ne vous regarderai pas dans les yeux. Je m'adresserai à vous en tant que madame Adler, et utiliserai le vouvoiement. Toujours." (I will speak only French when I am in the presence of anyone else, and when I'm outside of the house. I will only speak English with your express permission. I will not look you in the eyes. I will refer to you as Mistress Adler at all times, or refer to you with 'vous',) Sherlock said, almost verbatim from his previous recitation, except for one important word.

"C'est bien, tu es un bon garçon," (Good, good boy,) Irene said, running her hand up into Sherlock's hair. He was sweating, shivering from cold and pain. He wasn't bleeding, but he was going to be horribly bruised. He let her turn his head, but remembered too late to avert his gaze from her own. It earned him a slap across the buttocks, but only with her hand. "Admets la défaite lorsque tu es battu," (Know when you are beaten,) she whispered softly, rubbing her hand over the fabric on his behind.

"Oui, madame Adler," (Yes, Mistress Adler,) he said softly, keeping his eyes averted. He felt beaten, really truly beaten in that moment. He hadn't felt that beaten since she walked out of his brother's home with everything and he saw that angry, pitying look in his brother's eyes.

"Gentil petit. Allons, dis-moi ce que tu veux maintenant," (Good boy, now, tell me what you want,)Irene ordered. Sherlock glanced into her eyes and quickly looked away. It merely earned him a squeeze on his injured skin, nothing terrible. She only asked him what he wanted when she truly meant it.

"Bed-" he cut himself off, wincing. "Lit," (Bed) he amended, wincing and the pinch he got for his slip. He wasn't comfortable with her hand on his bottom. He didn't think he ever would be.

"Tu ne veux pas que je m'occupe de ces poignets?" (You don't want me to tend to your wrists?) she asked. He'd given up holding onto the bar when she started playing with his hair. He was leaning his weight fully on his wrists, too tired to do otherwise. The sharp metal had cut him, rubbed his skin raw. He didn't care.

"Lit," he requested again.

"Très bien, mais d'abord tu dois dire 's'il-vous-plaît'," (Okay, but first you must say please,) she said.

Sherlock hesitated. He hated saying please. "S'il-vous-plaît?" (Please?) he asked.

Irene smiled and place a kiss on his shoulder, light enough not to hurt. "You can speak in English now."

"Please," Sherlock said.

"Good," Irene said, rubbing his hair. She took out the key, having to stand on her tip toes to reach the cuffs to unlock them. Sherlock lowered his arms as soon as he was released from the bar. He stayed still so she could remove the cuffs. He let her lead him out; let her tend to his bleeding wrists. He made no sound even though he had to sit on the bed while she tended to his injured wrists. He sat still as she changed for bed. He let her undress him.

His only show of preference was to lay on his front and burry his head into his pillow. He felt dull, wrong, beaten, really and truly beaten.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes," Irene said, placing a kiss on his ear.

"I know," he said, letting her settle against his side before he fell asleep.

* * *

It was possibly the last thing Mycroft Holmes had expected… well, the last thing after his brother's suicide. He'd checked the records himself. He'd been sure it was his brother. They'd had him cremated, Moriarty was still at large, though he'd been oddly quiet. John Watson was still grieving. Mycroft was still grieving. He had failed possibly the only person he actually cared about. He felt guilty.

His guilt was probably why he felt so driven to punch his little brother when he saw the photos. Irene Adler. Sherlock Holmes had faked his death to follow Irene Adler. Not only that but he was walking around with her on the streets of Paris. Did he really think he could get away with this forever? That no one was going to come after him? Did he think Mycroft wouldn't have found out? Did he think the dyed red hair and moustache were fooling anyone?

Mycroft was seething as he quietly made his phone calls, ordered a case packed with his essentials and a plane to be fueled up. His little brother, his stupid little brother who faked his death to go after a woman… still so textbook. Irene Adler would destroy Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was still too delicate for her rough treatment. He'd been so battered after his loss. Mycroft hadn't been shielding his little brother because he didn't trust him… he'd done it because if Sherlock hadn't been handled properly then he would have cracked.

That was why Mycroft had accepted the suicide. Sherlock had always been self destructive, Moriarty had taken everything, and Sherlock was already susceptible. Why had he had to get famous when he did? Why couldn't it have been sooner or later?

"Stupid Sherlock, this may be the stupidest thing you've done so far," he said to the picture of his little brother. It's taken him more than two weeks to actually get to these pictures. It had been over two weeks since his little brother had been with the woman. Mycroft hoped Sherlock wasn't too badly damaged when he got there.


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft landed in Paris at a speed for which most people wouldn't have bothered buckling their seatbelts. He pressed a handkerchief to his nose, squeezing his nostrils shut and blowing as hard as he could. His ears popped loudly and painfully and he was left stunned for a moment before he folded up his handkerchief and returned it to the proper pocket. He's always had very sensitive inner ears, hated flying. He preferred practically any and every means of travel to flying, but he wasn't sure how much time he could risk leaving Sherlock Holmes in the hands of Irene Adler.

He was guided to a car which would take him to Irene Adler's home in Paris. He knew all of her residences, where all of her money was, where she shopped, everything. The fact that she'd been spending a lot of money on men's fashion and had even opened accounts at Yves Saint Laurent and Westwood hadn't tipped him off. It should have, since Irene Adler preferred female company most of the time.

Mycroft would never admit out loud that he'd been left reeling from his brother's death; that he'd been in pain from it, in mourning. He'd never say that out loud to anyone. He was sure that he was going to kill Sherlock with his bare hands the next time he saw him, or drag him into a hug and squeeze so hard Sherlock could never escape. He was afraid, worse than even when Moriarty set everything into action and he'd known that Sherlock's impending downfall would be because of him. He was afraid now, for his little brother and for his own heart.

No one would ever know this of course. If Sherlock didn't admit feelings and sentiment out loud then Mycroft really never did. It was why they'd drifted so far apart. Sherlock assumed that Mycroft tried to control him just as he controlled so much else. Sherlock thought his older brother saw him as a project. In reality, Mycroft loved his little brother very much and was trying to protect him, not control him. It just turned out that protection took a lot of control sometimes.

He rang the doorbell, one Anthea standing by his side on her phone. She would continue to run his work while he was having this little conversation, but he wasn't going to go into this situation with no one, though he trusted so few with something so private. Anthea had a transgression in the past concerning Irene Adler, but then she had informed him afterward. There was little he didn't know about Anthea, and she was best at keeping his secrets.

A red haired woman opened the door and Mycroft simply pushed the door open. "Tell Ms. Adler I will be seeing her in her drawing room," Mycroft said, heading for that room.

"She's not awake yet," the woman said.

"You should wake her then. I doubt Ms. Adler wants us in her home for long," Anthea said to the woman, standing by the front door, still twiddling with her phone.

The woman looked annoyed and flustered but clicked her way back to his mistress's bedroom.

* * *

"Good morning love," Irene said.

"Good morning, madamee Adler," Sherlock said. Her cheek was pressed to his chest, her nails back to twisting in his chest hairs. He could feel the tiniest touch of a smile edge on his lips. He didn't mind mornings, especially when his back wasn't screaming at him. Mornings where he woke up with Irene pressed against him, her fingers tracing different parts of his body, love in her eyes… a part of him, a very human very male part of him wouldn't mind that for the rest of his life.

He wouldn't even mind the handcuffs so much. Her misbehavior was fun when she wasn't beating him raw. She was creative, though, so she didn't just have to beat him. He thought she liked it. She liked cooing over him when he couldn't even move he hurt so badly. He'd finally learned how to behave out of sheer need to survive.

Mornings reminded him that he was human. They also reminded him of the game, the things that kept him going. One thing was certain though: he wasn't bored.

He turned a bit, pressing a kiss to Irene's forehead. She smiled. She liked it when he kissed her for no reason except that he wanted to. She loved to order him to kiss her, but she liked it… differently when he just did it. She liked it when it felt like he loved her. He didn't think he did. Even if he did it hardly mattered.

"I love you," Irene said, shifting closer to him. She didn't expect him to respond. "How is your back?"

"It doesn't really hurt," Sherlock said.

"Told you the aloe would help," she said.

"I never said that it wouldn't," Sherlock said. Mostly he didn't say much. Easier just to not speak than to have every other language he knew forbidden to him.

"Don't be fresh," Irene said, ruffling his hair and climbing on top of him. "I've always liked gingers."

"It's not my natural hair color," Sherlock said.

"That's what dye's for," Irene said, running the tip of her nose across his smooth cheek.

"Are you getting up?"

"Hmm… I was thinking of just staying in bed with you all day, would that be so bad?" She aksed.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"You smell bad," Sherlock said. Irene smacked him, but only morning hard, so not very hard at all.

"How dare you impugn my honor," Irene said, mocking hurt as she sat up on his hips. "Does this mean I should punish you?" She looked gleeful.

"I smell bad too," he said.

Irene pouted. "You just miss the shower."

"I miss Shostakovich," Sherlock said, smirking a bit.

Irene rolled her eyes and batted at him with her hands. "You're so terrible," she said.

"So are you," he said, sitting up. He slipped his arms around her, making her happy. "Play the 6 Romances today."

"In the mood for love?"

"I've got the 5th stuck in my head," Sherlock said.

"Shakespeare's 66 sonnet," Irene said. "You know it."

"Of course," Sherlock said. She was insulting his pride as an Englishman, she liked doing that.

"Then recite it for me."

"Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, as, to behold desert a beggar born," he began, feeling the proper way his tongue wrapped around the words.

"Mmm." Irene pressed her bare chest against his own, starting to place her soft tasting kisses on his neck. She did that sometimes. She'd leave marks all over his body, except for his neck, which she seemed to worship.

"And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, and purest faith unhappily forsworn, and guilded honour shamefully misplaced," he continued.

"What use is there in honor?" Irene asked.

"Little, though John would say there was much," Sherlock said. "Nh," he murmured when she nipped his ear.

"Did I say you could stop? Keep going," she ordered, pouting.

"And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted," he glanced at her and they both smirked. "And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, and strength by limping sway disabled," Irene resumed kissing his neck. He logged away that she was easily romanced by poetry, and art made tongue-tied by authority, and folly doctor-like controlling skill, and simple truth miscall'd simplicity," he stopped when she kissed his lips, hushing him for a moment.

"And captive good attending captain ill," she said softly, her eyes meeting his. He tugged her into a kiss, knowing that was what she wanted.

"Tired with all these, from these would I be gone," he continued, his eyes intent on hers. He was getting better at this, seduction.

"Save that, to die, I leave my love alone," she finished. For a moment they just looked at each other, assessing each other for what they could take, what the other's weaknesses and strengths were. They always did this when they looked into each other's eyes. "I will never leave you alone, Sherlock Holmes. You will never be rid of me."

"You make yourself sound like a stain, an undesirable spot," he said, smirking. His hands and his long fingers that she often seemed so fascinated by had been resting on her sides. He started to tickle her sides instead. He was still experimenting with ticking. He knew it could be painful, and had pushed his experiment too far last time. This time he barely did anything at all. "Out, out damned spot," he said, kissing her just because she'd want the assurance.

Irene laughed and wrapped her arms around Sherlock's neck, rubbing her nose against his and kissing him. "It's you and me from here out baby," she said.

"Movie line?" he asked. He'd never seen the use in movies much before, though he knew enough to be useful to him before. Irene liked cinema, like John liked crap telly.

"Not sure, possibly misquoted," Irene said, shifting in his lap, about to get up when there was a knock at the door. "Oh," Irene pouted, grabbing her robe and pulling it on. She stayed straddling Sherlock's hips. It was one thing for Amelia to see her, that didn't matter. Amelia could see some of Sherlock to upset him and it upset him more than he was willing to admit, but Irene kept the best parts for herself. "Come in," she called.

Amelia stepped in, shutting the door behind her. "Mycroft Holmes is here, down in the drawing room."

"Amelia, how many times do I have to tell you to see who it is before you answer it?" she asked.

"I'm sorry Ms. Adler," Amelia said.

"Shall I send him away?"

"No, don't bother," Sherlock said. "He's here about me," he said. "We might as well be done with it."

"And what would you suggest Sherlock Holmes?" Irene asked, nothing on her face betraying her emotion.

"Tell my brother if he's so dead set on seeing me than he can just wait. Offer him a bit of cake and tell him to keep his panties on. We'll be out after a shower." he said. He gave Amelia a cold and commanding look. He noted that she still looked to Irene for her instructions, but Irene merely nodded. Amelia nodded and left to do as instructed.

"Sherlock," Irene crooned. "You do remember your rules, do you not?" she asked.

"Of course I do," Sherlock said.

"What do you do when Amelia's around?" Irene asked.

Sherlock looked at her, feeling a bit petulant. He considered doing something as childish as sticking his tongue out at her, something he hadn't done since he was indeed very young. He decided against that course of action, and it would probably only end with his bruised and bleeding tongue. He grit his teeth, but looked her straight into the eyes. In her bedroom, in the mornings they were as close to equals at they could be. Even if that hadn't been true, he wouldn't have averted his gaze, not with Mycroft in the house.

"I speak only in French to Amelia, I never give her an order. I only answer her direct questions if she has your permission to speak to me, and my permission to speak to her, and I never look her in the eyes," he said. "Satisfied?"

"No, no I am not Sherlock Holmes. Amelia is a very special case. She is not my equal, but you are also below her in this household," Irene said.

"I highly doubt that. If you thought she was molesting me, she would be out on her posterior. If you thought I was molesting her, I assure you that would not be the case," he said.

"You don't throw out the dog for humping the servant's leg, but you also don't ever put the dog ahead of the servant to be fed," she said, getting up and going to her vanity. "Stand and grab onto the bed post," she ordered.

"This again? You'd sleep with that thing if I wasn't here," Sherlock said, grabbing onto the post.

"Who says I don't?" Irene asked, picking up the riding crop she had in her bed room. She had a few less inventive toys in easy reach within her bedroom.

"Does the riding crop get a sleeping cap and a nightie?" he asked, slipping into his American accent for the last part of the sentence.

Irene laughed at the image as she slapped the crop against his bare bottom. "Now, no more of your sass. You don't want this to hurt anymore than it will already," she said.

Sherlock turned his head, looking over his shoulder at her. "Who says I don't?"

"The way you moan in pain when I climb off you at night. You'd roll onto your stomach and whimper if I didn't lay on you… and then how would you learn?" she asked, slapping the riding crop against him in the exact same place as before. "Turn around," she said. "Good boy," she said when he did as he was told.

"Are you going to tell me today's rules between blows? Or can we get that part out of the way?" Sherlock asked, that earning him another slap. He winced a bit, at Irene didn't see that.

"You know your rules. You only speak French, you keep your eyes down, you speak only when spoken to and with my permission, and you remember to call me madame Adler," Irene said, bringing the riding crop down across his back side again.

"What's new today?" Sherlock asked, again earning himself an extra slap.

"I told your brother once that I should have you in a leash," Irene said, opening a drawer and pulling something out. Sherlock turned to look and paled a bit. "This is your punishment for your forgetfulness," she said.

"You aren't going to- in front of _him_?" Sherlock demanded, seething.

"Yes, exactly in front of him. You've made it clear to me that the only thing I can do to make you really understand is take away something you really want. If you'd let me handle the preparations then you could have seen your brother dressed up in a nice Westwood suit," she said, pausing to smirk at Sherlock's snarl. "Don't worry, I'll dress you in Gucci today. I think black's a good color on you," she said.

"Or it will look like someone died," Sherlock said. "Ouch!" He snapped, turning to glared at Irene for the unexpected snap between the shoulder blades.

"Turn around Sherlock," Irene said in her serious voice. Sherlock hesitated. He'd never argued with that voice before. He knew it couldn't end well, but he was angry and he didn't want to play her games. He glared at her for a moment before slowly turning around. He gritted his teeth and held on tight to the ornate dark cherry wood bedpost. He knew what she would do: layered slaps along his lower thighs (so it would be impossible to stand for long) and buttocks (so it would be near impossible to sit).

"You're playing a dangerous game," Sherlock said. Mycroft was less likely to leave him be if he really thought his brother was injured. Sherlock was going to have to play like he was perfectly fine.

"I always do," Irene said. Then she started her work.

* * *

Mycroft was beyond furious at being left waiting over an hour. The red hair woman (who Mycroft had been able to get every bit of information on during that hour. Amelia Bass, daughter of Lionel Bass and Katherine Bass (nee Glouster), no formal education past secondary, worked as an assistant at a Doctor's office, fired for suspected theft of medication, charges filed, incarcerated for a short stint. Doctor actually the thief. Came to work for Irene Adler only three months before) offered him cake and informed him rather politely that if he "was so dead set on seeing Sherlock Holmes he should wait," and that he should "keep his panties on".

He knew for certain these were Sherlock's words, drawing mostly from the ire in Amelia Bass's eyes. He did wait, and he did eat his cake, and he did look up everything he could to see what images he could get of Sherlock and Irene as they'd been see about Paris. The amount of the British Government's money Irene Adler had spent on Westwood suits was quiet impressive.

He'd decided to be patient, but it had been over an hour with no sight of his brother. He stood, about to just go look himself when the drawing room door was pushed open. Irene Adler entered first, dressed as she always was: classy, new and expensive. The one out of place accessory with a black leather leash she had wrapped around her hand. His brother was on the other end of it.

Sherlock was dressed in all black, something he never would have done in his normal life. His hair was still red, again something Sherlock never would have done to himself normally. Sherlock didn't look at him at all. This wasn't uncommon. Sherlock was good at ignoring people. But Sherlock wasn't ignoring his other brother. He looked up at him from under his eyelashes. Mycroft felt a terrible pity for him. Again, Mycroft Holmes had failed, and again his little brother paid the price.

"It's so good to see you, Mr. Holmes," Irene said politely, sitting down. "Come, Sherlock sit," she said, and Sherlock lower himself into his place on the couch next to her. "So… pleasant is not the word. You've ruined a perfectly lovely morning."

Mycroft glanced at his brother. He'd walked much most stiffly than he normally would, like even moving hurt, though he'd also seemed reluctant to sit. Injured enough to hurt his legs and make walking and standing difficult, but also injured so that sitting would be painful. Oh, Sherlock.

"I have come to get my little brother," Mycroft said.

"Jumping to the point. That's good, I will as well. I'm not handing him over," Irene Adler said, sitting back in her chair a little like she had no care in the world. She leaned her head on Sherlock's shoulder, possessive and punishing. Sherlock winced nearly imperceptibly, but Mycroft noticed.

"We have made many allowances for you already Ms. Adler, but I'm afraid this one will not stand."

"No, I'm afraid it will. If you want, I can renegotiate my contract to include your little brother, but it hardly matters. Even if you were to drag him away he'd simply find a way to return to me. Isn't that correct, mon petit Holmes," she said, changing her voice to one appropriate for a dog or a child. She reached up with the hand not holding the leash, scratching under Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock lifted his head, playing along with her. "Oui, madame Adler," he said.

Irene smiled and moved her hand to rub his fiery locks instead. "Good boy," she cooed, before looking back at Mycroft. "You see, Sherlock Holmes chose to come to me. How I treat him is none of your concern. He's an adult and he could walk away at anytime, but he's not going to. He purposefully threw away his past life, all his friends, never to return, just to follow after me. Loyalty and dedication if I ever saw it."

"For God's sake, Sherlock, say something," Mycroft said, feeling agitated by Sherlock's lack of speech. If anything Sherlock just seemed all wrong. His eyes were firmly fixed on his knees, not looking a either of them, his hands resting on his legs and his posture perfect. "Sherlock!" Mycroft snapped when his little brother didn't so much as acknowledge that someone had spoken to him.

Irene let out a tittering laugh. "He won't. He learned his lesson earlier. Sherlock knows not to speak until I give him permission."

"Well?" Mycroft asked.

"Well what?" Irene asked, feigning obliviousness.

"Give him permission, or whatever you need to make him speak," Mycroft said, getting more irritable than normal because he was feeling anxious. This was worse than he'd feared.

Irene glanced over toward the door as Amelia came in with a tray of tea. "Thank you Amelia," pouring herself a cup of tea. "Sherlock, you may answer him."

"Mycroft, je ne rentrerai pas avec toi. Je ne rentrerai pas du tout," (Mycroft, I am not going back with you. I'm not going back at all,) Sherlock said.

"What, Sherlock, have you given up being a proper Englishman too?" he asked to cover from how off put he was. Hearing Sherlock's strong an annoyingly authoritative voice coming out of a body that seemed subservient did not sit well with Mycroft. When Sherlock didn't answer Mycroft looked to Irene Adler. "Tell him that he can continue to answer," he ordered .

"I don't like that tone, but Sherlock knows he can answer, he's just sulking," Irene said.

"In French," Mycroft said.

"One of my rules, you see," Irene said, smiling in a way that was far too pleased with herself. "Sherlock Holmes is so very British, it's actually very funny. He hates that he can't speak his native tongue. He hates that he can't speak anything but French. You go back far enough and he'd probably be a man leading a charge against the Franks," she said, highly amused by this. "Well maybe not, setting nasty traps though is more likely," she said, reaching out and patting Sherlock's knee. Sherlock didn't react.

"Ms. Adler, I would like to have a private word with my brother," Mycroft said.

"Well I wouldn't," Irene said. "I'll tell you everything you need to know, and if you need to questions your brother you can do so in front of me," she said. She sipped her tea. "Would you like some Mr. Holmes?" she asked.

"No," Mycroft said, glancing at Sherlock who had taken nothing and been offered nothing.

"Don't worry about him. He prefers coffee in the morning anyway. Once we get rid of you, we'll have breakfast, so do get on with this meeting," Irene Adler said.

"I'm not leaving without taking Sherlock with me," Mycroft said. Sherlock's hands clenched. Mycroft found it discouraging that Sherlock didn't immediately snarl about not needing to be treated like a child.

"No, you won't," Irene Adler said, setting her cup back on its saucer and both back onto the cart. "I wasn't lying when I said Sherlock Holmes is here of his own free will. If you want him to not be then it will cost you more than double the original price-" Mycroft wheezed. "Double the original price to have him, which I know your masters won't pay. Furthermore, Sherlock has enough money for a plane ticket home and I've already given enough information to take you, your masters, and a few of your masters' friends a lot of trouble. If he wanted to go home at any point he can, but the longer he stays the more information he'll have to give to your masters, and the more money you'll save," Irene said, sitting back.

"Sherlock, is this true?" Mycroft said. He wouldn't get an answer any other way.

"Oui," Sherlock said.

"Ms. Adler, I would like to speak with my brother alone," Mycroft said again, much more forcefully.

"And again I believe the answer it no," Irene said. "I don't want you whisking my lover off out the front door while I'm being inattentive."

"Lover," Mycroft scoffed.

"Oui, Mycroft," Sherlock said. He was tired of his brother being there. "C'est ma compagne et je suis ici de mon plein gré," (She is my lover and I am here by my own choosing,) he said.

"Because you're trying to prove a point. Because you're trying to win back whatever pride you lost the last time. Don't you see this is the same thing all over again? She will shred you into a million pieces before this is over and no one will ever be able to put you back together again."

"Toujours aussi méprisant. Si cela allège ta conscience tu peux bien dire à Mummy que je suis vivant. Tu peux bien le dire à qui tu veux, d'ailleurs. Ca n'a aucune importance. J'ai choisi de rester ici avec Madame Adler. Tu peux rembarquer ta pitié et ta morale bien-pensante avec tes valises et faire tes baggages pour Londres," (Always so condescending. If it makes you feel better you can tell Mummy I'm alive. You can tell anyone you want that I'm alive. It won't matter. I chose to be here. I chose to stay here with Madame Adler. You can take all your pity and self righteous words and feelings and pack them in your luggage for your plane back to London,) Sherlock snarled, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his knees.

"Sherlock, why don't you stand up, you seem to be having a hard time staying still," Mycroft said kindly. It was to prove a point, but he knew the second he'd said it that it was exactly the wrong thing to say.

"Mycroft, je te préfèrerai toujours Madame Adler et la choisirai mille fois s'il le faut plutôt que de te suivre, même si elle m'arrache la peau à chaque fois. Je n'ai jamais eu besoin de toi et ne t'ai jamais voulu dans la vie, et cela est d'autant plus vrai désormais. Légalement, je suis mort. Peut-être qu'il vaudrait mieux que tu continues de faire comme si je l'étais. Si je suis mort tu n'auras même pas besoin d'expliquer à Mummy pourquoi je ne viens pas au dîner de Noël," (Mycroft, I will pick Madame Adler over you again and again for a thousand life times, even if she peels my skin off during every one of them. You have never been needed or wanted it my life, and this is exceedingly true now. I'm legally dead. Perhaps you should continue to act like it. If I'm dead you won't even have to explain to Mummy why I'm not at Christmas dinner,) Sherlock said. He looked over at Ms. Adler, and whatever passed between them Mycroft couldn't see, they both just stood.

"I think it's time for you to leave Mr. Holmes, we've decided to go back to bed," Irene said. She grabbed tight to the leash and tugged Sherlock out.

Mycroft Holmes sat there seething until the red head returned to ask him to leave. He followed her out, Anthea waiting for him at the front door. Yes, it should have been obvious to him that simply coming himself wouldn't have gotten Sherlock home. Sherlock had lost whatever affection he'd gained for his older brother after the Irene Adler case. No, Mycroft was going to need to pull out the big guns.

The problem was that Mycroft's last final plan had threatened to kill him the next time he laid eyes upon him. Mycroft Holmes just had to hope that Dr. John Watson would stay his hand long enough to listen to reason.

* * *

Sherlock took the lead the second they stepped out of the drawing room. To Irene's surprise he took her to the playroom, not the bedroom. He got down on one knee and looked up at her. In that lighting his eyes were blazing blue, a color she liked very much on him. "Madame Adler, je ferai ce que vous voudrez pour racheter mon comportement d'aujourd'hui, mais je ne verrai plus jamais Mycroft Holmes," (Madame Adler, I will do whatever you want me to in order to make up for my behavior today, but I will never see Mycroft Holmes again,) he said.

Irene leaned down wrapping her arms around Sherlock's wide shoulders and placing a kiss in his ear. "No, you don't have to suffer any punishment for leaving like that," she told him. "You don't have to ask or say please for me to agree to your terms. I deal with him because of my business, but you're not his business… and you're not my business," she told him, kissing his now deeply furrowed brow. "And you can speak English," she added.

"You're being awful nice," Sherlock said, looking at her warily. He was looking for a price. Irene didn't have the heart to tell him that he looked like he might break if he ever had to see his brother again. She didn't want him to shatter, she wanted him whole to continue to play their games forever.

"I'm in the mood," she said, dragging him up to standing. He leaned against her and she had to reach up to keep her arms around his shoulders. "So, for today I think we should rub some aloe on you, eat breakfast at the foot of the bed, and watch Cary Grant movies," she said.

"Cary Grant?" Sherlock asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"No matter what Jim claimed, he never was Mr. Sex, that crown always belonged to Mr. Grant," she said with a wink.

Sherlock laughed, and that was just the reaction she was hoping for.


	7. Chapter 7

Private flights could get you to and from places faster than a normal plane, if only because there wasn't any bothersome waiting to do. You got your one (or two) people on board and took off, home in London in such a short amount of time it's almost like the whole disastrous affair hadn't taken place, if he hadn't had to wait that over long hour just to have Sherlock walk out on him.

It had been a risk. He always took risks. He tried not to take risks with his brother, tried not to let Sherlock take risks he couldn't handle (suicidal/homicidal cabbies didn't happen to be something Sherlock couldn't handle). Sherlock didn't know that Mycroft had always been censoring his cases. He hadn't always succeeded, of course, but he always tried. Sometimes things slipped through his fingers though. The worst thing Mycroft had ever done was to ask his little brother to take the job getting a few simple pictures from Irene Adler.

He was taking another now. Anthea made to get out but he reached out, touching her shoulder. The woman who barely ever looked up from her phone, jumped when he touched her. He rarely touched anyone. "No," he said simply and got out. He did not need nor want to explain. If John Watson wanted to beat him into a bloody pulp, he was justified… more than justified from what Mycroft had witnessed in Paris. He stood and walked out, umbrella in hand as he walked up to John Watson's new flat.

It wasn't hard to get in past Watson's new (different/indifferent) land lady. He simply walked up a few flights of stairs, knocked on the door and entered. When he did open the door the first thing he noticed (besides the painfully small and dingy flat) was that John Watson has a gun trained on his heart.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't shoot you where you stand?" John said, looking ready for murder. He was. Always the soldier. Mycroft had always seen what Sherlock either ignored or chose not to see: that John Watson was both stronger and more malleable than Sherlock Holmes. John Watson was more likely to kill a man, and less likely to be bothered by it. Sherlock would never survive a war. He was a precisely honed instrument, not made for more than specialized work.

"My brother is still alive, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, coming in and shutting the door. Ah, there, hesitation. It had been over a month, heading into two now since Sherlock Holmes jumped off the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. John Watson was still grieving. He wanted to kill Mycroft for the terrible joke, and yet he hesitated. He hesitated because he hadn't yet reached 'acceptance' in the stages of grief, and he hesitated because he knew that Sherlock Holmes had never been the kind who would take his own life.

"I should kill you just for that," John said, continuing to aim his gun at Mycroft Holmes as he found a seat on John's bed. At the same time he continued not to shoot. His flat was painfully small: two rooms exactly living room/bedroom and kitchen/bathroom. John could literally have a toaster drop into his bathtub and electrocute him and it would honestly be an accident.

"Yes, you might should," Mycroft said. "I have made a grave mistake, I have made many," he said. "But my brother is alive… and worse off than if he were dead," he said.

"What, did Moriarty whisk him away?" John asked.

"No, Irene Adler," Mycroft said.

John lowered his gun. "This can't be possible… I saw, I saw Sherlock die, I saw his blood… there was too much, humans don't survive losing that much blood, and a head injury besides. No, it's not possible," he said.

"You have seen my brother do many extraordinary things. I am sure," Mycroft said, reaching into his case and pulling out the file. He pulled out one picture and handed it to Dr. Watson, who'd already set his gun on the dresser. "You would agree, though, that this is Sherlock Holmes, right?"

"The hair's wrong," John said, too flabbergasted to take in more than that at that particular moment.

"Yes, a bit of bleach will do that," Mycroft said.

"Yes," John said, looking back at the picture. "This is really him, when was it taken?" He asked.

"About two weeks ago," Mycroft said.

"Two weeks? Two bloody weeks? He's been alive that long and hasn't bothered to tell anyone? I'm going to kill him. I'm going to hug him and then I'm gonna put a bullet in his brain, the bloody idiot," John snarled. "Why in the hell is he wearing Moriarty's suit anyway?" he asked.

"Ms. Adler spent an exorbitant amount of money buying my brother Westwood suits," Mycroft explained.

"Why? Why would she do that?"

"I imagine to prove her control over my brother."

"Control?"

"You do remember that Ms. Adler is a dominatrix?"

"Well, yes, I mean, hard to forget, but why? I mean, Sherlock wouldn't…"

"Sherlock, it seems, has taken up with Ms. Adler as her new submissive."

John snorted. "Like that would ever work," he said.

"Why not?" Mycroft asked, interested in what John had been able to pick up on about Sherlock Holmes.

"He's too much… well, he's too… He's Sherlock. There's more pride in his little finger than there is in all of London, you notwithstanding," John said.

"I thank you for that," Mycroft said, pressing John to continue.

John looked back at the picture. "No, she would beat him black and blue before he ever was willing to submit to her."

"As I saw, this is probably exactly what has been happening," Mycroft said.

"What did you see?"

"Not much, not much for a _normal_ person. Quiet a lot for me."

"Want to tell me what you saw?" John asked, starting to get irritable.

"Sherlock was in pain," Mycroft said. "I'm sure that she has been, as you say, beating him black and blue."

"Then why didn't you bring him home?" John demanded.

"Because I can't. I can't touch her John, not even me. She was very good about how she set up her protection. Sherlock went there of his own power… and he can leave of his own power."

"But he's not going to," John said, starting to see it.

"No, he won't."

"Because she beat him," John said.

"Because she beat him," Mycroft said gravely.

"But I don't understand. He was fine after… I mean he moped around a bit at first, but he wasn't really any different than he normally was," John said.

"Dr. Watson, at any point after he lost to Irene Adler did he do anything… really odd, act really not normal?" Mycroft asked.

"Well, yes. I bought Cluedo to play with him because It seemed like the only board game I could get him to play but…"

"But," Mycroft urged.

"But he got really weird about it, started to insist that the only way the murder made sense is if it was a suicide, if the victim did it."

"Were you winning up until that point?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes, actually," John said.

Mycroft sighed. "This is what I was afraid of… Dr. Watson, my brother doesn't play games, not ones he can't win. If he plays a game he has a possibility of losing it's always the ones that will get him killed. If he can't win then he changes the rules, learns a new way of thinking so he can solve the puzzle. You bought a mystery board game because he thought it would be something that could momentarily engage him. When he lost he used his mind to change everything the clues said. He changed it so that he could win. He couldn't change the game, so he changed the way he thought."

"That's insane," John said.

"Yes, yes it is," Mycroft said. "Now… take what he did with that board game, and then make it real… because this is exactly what is happening now with Irene Adler, but this time it's very real," he said.

"So he's changing his thoughts so he can win, against Irene Adler?"

"I believe he believes that he's trying to act as he submissive until she lets her guard down and he can get her camera phone and the password," Mycroft said. "He's playing the same game he did before, and Ms. Adler is smart enough to see this. She's never going to let her guard down, and she'll be amused along as he's trying to beat her," Mycroft said.

"So, she's winning as long as Sherlock is there."

"And Sherlock is losing every second he remains with her… for a man who can't stand to lose a board game, how do you think this will affect my brother?" Mycroft asked.

"It'll kill him, or worse," John said.

"Yes, which is exactly what I'm afraid of," Mycroft said.

"Can you get him home?" John asked.

"I can't, but maybe you can," Mycroft said.

"How?" John asked.

"By going to Paris and trying to convince Sherlock to cut his loses and leave."

"One problem, Sherlock doesn't do that," John said.

"He wouldn't have before, but there is a chance… just a chance, but is has to be you," Mycroft said.

"What chance? Why me?"

"You're the only friend he's ever had. If he'll ever listen to anyone, it'll be you," Mycroft said. "As for the chance… Ms. Adler has been feeding him information, enough, she assures me, to get him home and reinstated as alive without much fuss from the people I work for. She will lose some money and some protection if he leaves with what he has now. If you can convince him that all he needs to do is create a chink in the armor and that I… that the British government can exploit," he said.

"Why couldn't you do this?"

"Because I am also Ms. Adler's adversary, and she will never allow me private words with my brother… and he also isn't speaking to me. I'm afraid that if he ever trusted me before that it's gone now."

"What did you do?"

"I became more selective about what cases I would allow my brother could get to," Mycroft said.

"You… that's what he was muttering about for half a year, about censorship and the evils of it? You, you were censoring Sherlock?" John asked in true disbelief.

"I've always done it a little, but I was afraid that he would react as he has reacted… just sooner. I was afraid if something else stumped him that he would break… and in doing so I almost assured that he would. Dr. Watson… I'm not certain that you can get him back, and I'm not certain if he will be the same man you knew even if you can get him back, but I also know that you are the only one who can possibly convince him to leave," Mycroft said.

"Would it… Mycroft, if Sherlock was able to win-"

"He won't."

"But if he is… wouldn't it be better to let him keep going until he won?"

"He won't be able to, Dr. Watson. But if he did… he'll have lost ten million times and won once. Do you think he'll be the same man after that?"

"No," John said after a bit of hesitation. "What do I need to do?"

"You need to pack whatever you need and get on a plane to Paris. A flat as already been purchased in your name. You can buy anything you need there," he said.

"Paris," John said. "Flat? But-"

"I am aware that you're not currently working, and I will be sure to have your things sent to your flat in Paris, but you need to go as soon as you can."

"M-Mycroft, this is a little fast," John said. "So what, I just drive up to their flat and knock on the door and ask to see Sherlock? I don't even speak French!"

"They do speak English in Paris as well, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said for one moment of amusement before it all melted away into a terrible sadness. "No, I'm afraid what you do is send Ms. Adler a text, I'll give you her number. You text her and tell her you're coming at nine tomorrow morning and then you show up and just wait until you see my brother," he said.

"And that's it? Then what's the rush to get me out?" John asked.

"I was foolish to simply show up there this morning. It will be better if they have a warning of you, but it's better for you to be in the city in case you're invited to supper."

"Do you think she's actually going to invite me to supper?"

"No, but I don't want to lose the chance because you're taking time picking socks," Mycroft said with a bit of temper in his voice.

John sighed and stood up, starting to move around his flat. "So, what I need my computer, phone, gun and a change of clothes for tomorrow?" He asked, starting to pack everything anyway.

"That will be enough," Mycroft said. "Actually the French thing might be a problem," he said.

"You just said they spoke English in Paris," John said. He felt more than a little embarrassed that he hadn't considered that.

"They do, but Sherlock, being Ms. Adler's submissive has certain rules he must follow," Mycroft said.

"And what? He can't speak English anymore?" John asked.

"Yes, actually."

"Bloody brilliant," John grumped. "They got French to English dictionaries at Heathrow?"

"You surely learned French before?"

"In school, I barely passed, surely you've got my school records. The only languages I can understand outside of English are Dari and Pashto, and that's only because it was either that or miss a few very important things in Afghanistan," John said.

"Dari and Pashto?" Mycroft asked, somehow insulted those were the only languages John Watson was familiar with.

"I know a few phrases in Urdu, not enough to ask for the loo mind you," John said with a shrug.

"I'll be sure there's a dictionary on the plane," Mycroft said.

"Great, this is going to be even harder talking to Sherlock if I can't even understand him. Is she going to even let me see him alone?" John asked.

"I don't know," Mycroft said. "She wouldn't allow me to speak to Sherlock alone, but then he was the one who ended the meeting, not her," he said.

"Bloody Brilliant, another thing to worry about," John said.

"You don't need to worry about money or accommodations. Just consider yourself employed by the Holmes family for the time being."

"How is Sherlock going to react to me working for you?"

"Not well… you can tell him you're working for Mummy if you prefer," Mycroft said.

John winced. "No, thank you," he said, thinking Sherlock would hate that even worse. "How long do I stay there?"

"As long as you can, as long as it takes. You can return at any point, if you feel it's hopeless, but it's better if you stay around. Even if you can't make him come home, it might be easier for him to have you nearby."

"I'm going to kill him when I see him, you realize that?"

"You promised to kill me the next time you saw me as well, Dr. Watson. If you're really worried about killing him, though, I suggest leaving your gun at home," he said.

John zipped his bag closed and looked at Mycroft. "This is all your fault."

"I know," Mycroft said.

"I'm not going to forgive you for this."

"You shouldn't."

"He won't either."

"I'm counting on that, John… just bring Sherlock home."

"I'll do what I can. Let's go," he said.

Mycroft stood from the bed and they both walked out and down to the car. They were silent in the car. Irene Adler's address and phone number appeared on John's phone, as did his flight information and everything he'd need to know to get to his new flat in Paris. The car drove John straight to Heathrow. He got out and didn't say goodbye.

John was seething as he made it to the gate. He didn't get checked at security. He got waved threw to a private jet that seemed to land almost as soon as it took off. The rapid change of altitude made John's head hurt. He blew his nose as he got off the plane, feeling his ears pop painfully. He toss the tissue in a bin as he passed by and left the airport (no bothering with customs or any of that mess, thankfully).

It was easy to find a cab. He was relieved to find one where the cabbie spoke English, which again made John feel stupid. He'd done fine in Afghanistan, but then he could actually speak and understand the languages he needed for that country. Paris wasn't near so far away but it made him edgy like he was actually going into a warzone.

But he was, wasn't he? He was on search a rescue. Mycroft had down the searching part, now John just had to be able to talk the unbelievably galling Sherlock Holmes into cutting his loses (impossible) and returning home mostly empty handed. This was made more impossible by the fact that Sherlock _Bloody_ Holmes had faked his own death in order to escape everyone he knew and find Irene Adler to engage her in a new game. To make it even worse, Sherlock might not even be able to communicate with John.

John was thinking about if Sherlock would be allowed to type or text in English or if that too would have to be in French. Just thinking about that was making his head spin already. By the time John would be able to figure out what Sherlock had said, Sherlock would probably be bored and have moved on already. Brilliant, absolutely Fucking. Bloody. Brilliant.

John pulled out his phone from his pocket and carefully typed in Irene Adler's phone number to the contact box, saving it before he moved to send her a text. He hesitated, unsure of how best to phrase it. He must have retyped the message half a dozen times. Finally his cab pulled up to his flat and he actually had to hit send.

I'm coming tomorrow at nine to see Sherlock,

John Watson.

Simple, to the point, it would do. John paid the cabbie, grabbed his bag and slogged up to his flat in the far too impressively flat in the far too impressively nice and expensive building. (Really Mycroft? Really?) He set his bag down on the bed and unpacked. He was glad he remembered pyjamas for the evening. It was still afternoon, though, so he set about trying to figure out where he could get food from until he noticed that the refrigerator and cabinets were fully stocked.

"Mycroft apparently makes up for his guilt with lavish gifts," John said to no one, shutting the cabinets he'd opened. Now all he had to do was decide what he hated more: cooking or wandering around Paris.

* * *

" _Insanity runs in my family. It practically gallups,_ " Cary Grant said from the large flat screen telly Irene Adler normally had discretely hidden away in a set of cabinets in her bedroom.

Irene laughed at the line, even though she'd heard it a hundred times before. Sherlock chuckled. They were both propped up at the foot of her bed, laying on their stomachs, eating popcorn, drinking beer (all Irene's idea) and discussing the merits of arsenic poisoning versus… well, whatever Jonathan Bruster's methods were (Sherlock's idea). Sherlock was much more excited about the prospect of their arsenic murders because they were so much more subtle and because no one would guess.

Irene wasn't surprised that Sherlock Holmes had never seen _Arsenic and Old Lace_ , nor was she surprised that he seemed to be enjoying it. A comedy about murder? How could you go wrong? Besides, Cary Grant running around the screen made Irene very, very happy.

That happiness was disrupted when her phone started making noise. She sighed and paused the movie, grabbing her phone. She'd been about to be annoyed until she saw who it was. "Your brother does good work, Sherlock."

"Does he?" Sherlock asked, reaching out for the phone. Irene handed it over.

I'm coming tomorrow at nine to see Sherlock.

John Watson

Sherlock paled when he saw the words. Other than that he made no sign that he cared. He simply handed the phone back to her and she set it back on the pillow it had been lying on before. "I won't be seeing him," he said.

"Yes you will," Irene said.

"No, I won't," Sherlock said, his voice a little louder.

"Mon petit Holmes, you've spent far too much time today ordering me around," Irene said, rubbing her hand over his aching buttocks before smacking his left cheek, hard. She'd stripped him of his clothes earlier, rubbing allow on him. She was still dressed, though in pyjamas that made her look younger than her actual age. It reflected her mood: still possessive, still wanting to punish, but also wanting for a bit of innocent fun.

"And what, will you bring me down this time with the collar and the leather pants, make me answer in French except when you have me barking, maybe have me sniff John's crotch?" Sherlock asked irritably.

"No, but I should, that sounds like a wonderful idea," she said, glancing out of the corner of her eye to see Sherlock looking suddenly very off. She could make him do anything. He was doing a great job acting as her Sub. He would do it. Short of telling Sherlock to try and shag his friend, he'd do anything to make her happy so he'd have a chance to get what he'd want. But it would cost him, being humiliated in front of John would cost him dearly.

She wanted it to cost him something, but she didn't want to actually break him… although the idea did have its merits. She liked breaking people down into what she wanted them to be. The problem was that while she liked the idea of a perfectly Submissive Sherlock Holmes, she only liked the idea of him as a trophy. She also wanted her feisty, fighting Sherlock to still be around.

"What am I going to do then?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm not sure yet," Irene said. "But if you be a good boy I might let you speak English… does John even know French?"

"He knows Bari, Pashto and a bit of random Urdu," Sherlock said.

"Really? How do you know?"

"John talks in his sleepy sometimes," Sherlock said. "And he started saying complete nonsense in Urdu when he stubs his toe in the middle of the night on the way to the loo," he added.

"You're such a creepy stalker," Irene said affectionately, stroking Sherlock's spine just right so he would shiver.

"Enough of this, put the movie back on," Sherlock said. He didn't want to see John. He really didn't want to see John, but he also didn't want to think about it anymore. He also wanted to see how this mess of a movie was going to end. He just wished for once that he could not think about anything or any of who or what he'd have to deal with in the morning.

* * *

John received a text message from Irene Adler at about nine in the evening, shortly after he'd gotten out of the shower. He imagined (unbidden) that she had Sherlock tied to something at that moment, sweating was he waited for whatever pain was coming to happen (or to stop. John wasn't sure which image he found to be worst).

We'll see you at nine. Should Sherlock greet you on a leash? Or in Leather pants?

Irene

#

John glared at the screen for a full minute before he started to type rapidly.

#

Don't you dare humiliate him in front of me just so you can get off later.

John

#

I don't do it to get off. I do it to teach him. He's been very bad today. Want to hear what he's done?

Irene

#

Sod off

John

#

You're very nice this evening. Don't worry, he's already been beaten for his transgressions.

Irene

#

John snarled at that. He hated the idea of a man like Sherlock Holmes actually being beaten, whether at a game or with a whip. He thought of Sherlock at Cluedo and then he thought of what Mycroft said. Would Sherlock really break under this.?

#

So, what should it be? I'm thinking of sending him out naked. I'm sure you don't mind. ;)

Irene

#

John was seething when he wrote his response.

#

I have no problem killing you for hurting him. Mycroft and the whole British Government can sod off for all I care. If you hurt him tomorrow, I'll hurt you.

John

#

You're so cute when you're protecting him… like he's your dog or something. Don't worry, I'm not going to put him in the dog fighting ring.

Irene

#

What are you going to do?

John

#

Hmm… I'm not sure yet. It does need to be good. I did the leash with Mycroft today. Don't want to be repetitive. That would be boring.

Irene

#

Yes, positively horrible *sarcasm*

John

#

You know how Sherlock gets bored. I promised him I wouldn't let him get bored, and he doesn't, not with me. He probably does with you.

Irene

#

It doesn't matter if he gets bored or not.

John

#

Do you really mumble in nonsense Urdu when you stub your toe at night on your way to the toilet?

Irene

#

Tell Sherlock to shut up

John

#

Can't, he's sleeping, though I can wake him up to tell him you want to speak with him.

Irene

#

John hesitated before he responded. He wanted to hear from Sherlock. God, he really wanted to get one of Sherlock's snarky texts but…

#

Let him sleep.

John

#

He doesn't want to see you.

Irene

#

I bet he doesn't, but he's just going to have to deal with that.

John

#

Ah, I think I know what I'll do with him tomorrow

Irene

#

Feel like sharing?

John

#

What? And Ruin the surprise? You're not fun.

Irene

#

John stared at the message for a while. When had Irene Adler begun to sound so much like James Moriarty?

#

Do you know where Moriarty is?

John

#

Sherlock's grave, I imagine. I think Sherlock liked the irony.

Irene

#

John did not appreciate that. He'd cried over Moriarty's dead body? That's it, Sherlock was definitely going to die tomorrow.

#

Tell Sherlock he will die tomorrow at 9:01 in the morning.

John

#

Lol, I'm sure he'll be looking forward to it.

Irene

#

I better go now. I don't want to wake the baby, after all.

Irene

#

He sleeps so beautifully when he's exhausted after I've worked on him for a few hours.

Irene

#

He's a ginger now, you know.

Irene

#

Is this your version of going? Because you're still here.

John

#

Spoil sport.

Irene

#

Pretty dreams, Dr. Watson.

Irene

John put his phone down and put his head in his hands. Just what was she going to do to Sherlock tomorrow? He honestly didn't even want to know. Sherlock didn't want to see him? Fine, the coward. John was still going anyway. Irene Adler actually like Sherlock with his fake red hair? Was she Insane? Probably, but that was beside the point. How was John even going to act tomorrow?

He thought about this for a moment before giving up. He plugged his phone on the charger, shut off the light, rolled over and went instantly to sleep with all the perseverance of a man who'd been able to sleep with RPGs blowing up over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the #, I couldn't figure out how to make it readable otherwise.


	8. Chapter 8

John was standing on Irene Adler's doorstep and precisely 8:59 am. He reached out and rung the bell, waiting for someone to answer. A very tall and very lovely red head answered the door. John smiled his best smile, taking a moment to curse Sherlock's very socks for what was about to happen.

"B-bonjour," he said, with what he considered the worst accent ever. "Je m'appel Doctor John Watson, um," he looked down at his dictionary. He'd used the internet and whatever garbled French he remembered from school to try and piece together things to say, but he clearly couldn't remember much of it. It hadn't helped that he literally couldn't understand his last cabbie's English and the man wouldn't stop laughing at his French. "Je suis… je suis," he looked back at the dictionary "Ah! Je suis ici voyeur Sherlock Holmes," he said.

The woman stared at him impassively until John felt himself start to sweat. He started flipping through his dictionary wondering just how badly he'd screwed up this woman's language. "Ah, ah… Tu comprend? Je voudrais voyer Sherlock Holmes." He flipped through dictionary again, wracking his brain. "Sherlock Holmes est ici? Sherlock Holmes est… dans le chez?" He asked.

Finally the woman's façade broke and she started to laugh. John blushed and began to wait for her to finish laughing, knowing any more attempts at French would make it worse. Yet she just kept laughing and laughing. "Okay, okay, I get it, is he here?"

The red haired woman smirked at him. "Sherlock Holmes is here. The lady and her pet are still abed, but they should be down shortly. I have been directed to show you to the dining room and to take your coat. Dr. Watson, your French is rather bad, I'm sure that Ms. Adler will be very amused. You are most assuredly Mr. Holmes companion," she said, and stepped aside to let him in.

John blushed, wondering why he hadn't just bothered with English in the first place. "Oh, thank you," he said.

The woman sighed and shook her head. She simply motioned for him to follow and then walked away. It took John a second too long to get it, but he stepped inside, shut the door and followed her. The red haired woman took him to a small dining room where a table was set for only two. The woman pulled out his chair, waiting for him to sit before he pushed in his chair. John couldn't help but blush, feeling very wrong for having been on the receiving end of such chivalry. "Thank you," he said. "Oops, I mean," he started to go his dictionary just out of habit now, but the woman placed her hand on the top of his, stopping him.

"There's no need. I understand. Ms. Adler will be down in a minute," she said softly and walked off.

"Dammit Sherlock," John said, wishing that he'd met that woman in a pub in London and that Sherlock Holmes was safe at home in his flat, shooting the wall. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so patently embarrassed… well he could, but the only recent times came because Sherlock left him in a situation that no normal person could handle.

He sat silently, waiting until he just felt downright uncomfortable having sat so long with no signs of life. He stood to go find someone when he finally heard anyone. "You don't need to stand when a lady enters the room, though I suppose you're one of those who prescribe to old chivalric laws," Irene Adler said. John couldn't see her, she was still behind him at the door, but he hated her.

"It was an-" He cut himself off when Irene and Sherlock came around the corner. Irene Adler was dressed up to the nines, as always in a green dress that hugged her body (again as always) and reminded him why he'd been attracted to her in the first place. What set him on edge was Sherlock. John wasn't a complete idiot on clothes. He didn't have a lot, but all of it was of good quality, and Sherlock would sometimes expound on clothes if it related to a case. He also knew from having the memory of bombs strapped to his chest at a pool exactly what type of suits Moriarty liked to wear and how they looked.

It looked… odd on Sherlock, especially because it also was like the black suit he normally wore, and that purple shirt. What threw it all off balances was the black leather leash and collar the world's only consulting detective now wore and how tightly Irene Adler had the end clenched around her hand. John glared at her, up and down glared. He didn't care how angry he was at Sherlock at that moment. He just wanted to make the woman hurt for making Sherlock Holmes seem any less than he was.

"I told you I didn't want to ruin the surprise," she said, reaching up to take Sherlock's cheeks in her hands and drag him down into a kiss. "And just look how well trained I have him so far," she said. The red haired woman re-entered and helped Irene to her seat just as she'd helped John. John was suddenly struck that the table was only set for two.

"What-"

"Won't you please have a seat Dr. Watson?" Irene said, smiling in that sultry and malicious way that she probably had copywritten.

"No, I don't think I will," he said, looking over at Sherlock who had his eyes down cast. Just what the hell had the woman done to him?

"You should sit down Dr. Watson. Breakfast can't begin until you sit down," she said. She smiled at him, but he just kept standing still, glaring at her. "Maybe I should say this instead: your friend can't sit until you do, and his legs should still be very sore and stiff from the day before," she said. She smirked when she saw John's eyes flick to Sherlock's legs, noticing the quiver there.

"Fine," John said sitting down in a bit of a huff. He really hated this woman. Even he could see she was good though. She would use everything and everyone against Sherlock, and use Sherlock against everyone she could. Just one more of her many power plays.

John's gaze slipped to Sherlock who seemed hesitant to move. John wondered what was going on until the consulting detective slowly lowered himself onto his hands and knees. John stared, not quiet comprehending until the red haired woman came around, beginning to serve breakfast off a cart. She placed the warm foods on the table before going to the last plate on the serving cart. She pulled off the fancy silver lid and picked something off the cart, something John would register just a bit too late as a dog food tray. She set it on the ground in front of Sherlock.

John didn't know how long he started in horror at this, long enough to realize it was just cereal and water in the bowl, and long enough that Irene Adler clearly got bored of him watching Sherlock. "Dr. Watson," She said, and John dragged his eyes away from his friend on the floor where he was simply looking down at his food.

"What! What?" John snapped annoyed until he heard a quiet crunching. He felt something sick twist in his stomach.

"How was your flight?" Irene asked. She was protecting Sherlock, protecting him from having to eat out of a dog bowl while his only friend looked on. That sat hard in John's stomach, but he knew that Sherlock wouldn't like him seeing that. He kept his eyes focused on Irene instead.

"Bloody awful. Never knew such small plane could wreck your ears like that," John said, starting on his eggs.

"That's too bad. How long do you plan to stay?"

"No idea."

"Surely you must?"

"Nope, none, a few weeks, a month, a year, it all depends," John said.

"On what?" Irene asked, smiling.

"Guess," John said.

Irene just smiled. They lapsed into silence, only the sound of crunching dry cereal and silverware against expensive china. John could barely make himself swallow, but he didn't look at Sherlock, not for anything until the crunching stopped.

"You finished your food, well, aren't you a good boy," Irene said with the patronizing tone a person used for their dog. She scratched Sherlock's still red hair and smiled. "Isn't he wonderful, Dr. Watson? Such a well trained pet?" she asked.

John swallowed, looking just as unsure as how to answer as he felt. He felt sick seeing his friend, a ridiculously proud man, being treated as less than human. How was he supposed to even answer that? Was it better to play along or to just keep his mouth shut? Or to draw his gun and shoot her right between the eyes where she sat?

"Meow," came the low, thrumming voice of Sherlock Holmes in the most bored tone he could manage. "Meow, meow, meow," he said.

For just a moment they are sat there in complete silence. Then John and Sherlock cracked at the same time, both descending into a fit of giggles. The whole thing was so ridiculous: a man who pretended to be dead was not on the floor pretending to be a dog… a dog that apparently wanted to be a cat. It didn't make John's anger go away, but it completely dissolved the wrongness of the picture. Sherlock wasn't broken. He was still himself, just playing a came.

"Very amusing, boys," Irene said. John couldn't stop laughing. He had to wiped tears from his eyes to see Irene Adler, who looked annoyed out even she was smiling a little. It was all so silly that even she couldn't be angry about it. It didn't help that Sherlock wouldn't stop giggling either. That just spurred John on more.

John stood and walked over to Sherlock, kneeling down. He grabbed the taller man's face in his hands, making him look at him. Sherlock went silent and John marshaled his face. "You're such a bad dog," he said in the baby voice an owner would use for their animals. "And I'm going to kill you later for scaring the hell out of me. Yes I am, yes I am," he said. He couldn't keep it up anymore. He cracked again and so did Sherlock. They ended up both seating on the floor laughing hysterically at the whole thing.

"Well, since it seems you two don't need me anymore," Irene said, standing up, acting haughty and annoyed when she clearly wasn't.

"Madame Adler," Sherlock said, stopping his laughter. There was something like pain on his face, and John wasn't sure what it meant.

"Don't worry, Amelia assures me the doctor speaks terrible French. You have a half hour to catch up," she said and walked off, shutting the dining room doors, leaving the two of them alone.

They just sat there, staring at each other for a while. Finally John decided to break the silence. "I can't believe you did that," he said.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Meow, meow, meow?" John asked in his best Sherlock Holmes impression. It just made them laugh all over again.

"Yes, I thought you'd enjoy that," Sherlock admitted, standing up and taking Irene's vacated seat. John scrambled up, retaking his chair. It was just as odd seeing Sherlock eating on the floor as it was seeing him eat Irene's leftovers, the leash still dangling from his neck, looking like he didn't have care in the world.

"Well, it certainly broke the tension," John said, though he could feel it creeping back. "I am going to kill you for not being dead you know," he said calmly.

"I am aware," Sherlock said, not looking at him.

"You want to explain before I kill you."

"Not really," Sherlock said. "I don't feel the need to confess my sins before my final hour," he said with a smirk.

"Sherlock," John said, and his old flatmate looked up at him. He noted the tone. This wasn;t something to joke about.

Sherlock took Irene's coffee cup, taking a sip and sitting back. "Moriarty had gunmen trained on you, and on Mrs. Hudson, and on Lestrade. Three gunmen, three bullets. If I didn't jump then you would all die," he said.

"Oh god," John said, stunned by his friend's devotion. "So you needed to be dead… but snipers for hire don't stick around much after the money's dead," he said, knowing hired guns as well as Sherlock did.

"I had to get around Mycroft," Sherlock said simply.

"So, you decided to not tell anyone that you weren't dead because while it would make them all less heartbroken it would also keep your big brother off your trail," John said. "Is that about right?"

"It sounds worse when you say it like that," Sherlock said.

"There's no way for it to sound good," John said.

"It clearly didn't work for long. Mycroft showed up yesterday, and now here you are," Sherlock said. "How much is Mycroft paying you to get me back?"

"He's paying me to stay in the city for as long as I feel like. I'm here to bring you back, you unbelievable prat," John said, glowering at his old flatmate.

"I'm not going back."

"Well, it's not like you'd just pick up and come because I came to call. Your main characteristic besides being a complete bastard is stubbornness," he said, seething a bit.

"John… I'm… sorry, I suppose, that I couldn't tell you," Sherlock said. "I wasn't sure you could act well enough."

"Who did you tell?"

"What?"

"You couldn't have done this on your own, so who did you tell?"

Sherlock hesitated for just a moment. "Molly Hooper," he said.

"Yes, because she's a great actress," John grouched.

"Mycroft doesn't know her. Neither he nor Moriarty ever counted her. She also had bodies handy and was a nearby doctor," he said.

"I'm a doctor," John pointed out.

"Not one at St. Bart's," Sherlock responded. "No one else knew until I got here."

"Let's talk about something else," John said, suddenly really wanting to just lunge across the table and throttle Sherlock.

"Okay," Sherlock said, going back to Irene's coffee.

"This isn't over though, Sherlock. I'm still bloody furious at you and we're going to have words again later."

"I know," Sherlock said. "I am sorry," he said and John was sure that probably meant it. That didn't make it better.

"Let's talk about something else."

"Okay."

"Sherlock… how are you doing?"

"Fine," Sherlock answered automatically without thought.

"You're a great actor, but sometimes you're a terrible liar."

Sherlock actually looked offended. "That's patently untrue."

"Really?" John asked.

"Really," Sherlock said, pausing to speak before he took a big sip of the rapidly luking coffee.

"Sherlock, you keep shifting uncomfortably and your legs were shaking when you stood and even when you were kneeling."

"Oh, that," Sherlock said, setting down the coffee cup and starting on the toast. "Just a bit bruised, par for the course with this investigation, I'm afraid."

"Par for the course?"

"Yes."

"On this investigation?"

"Yes."

"You see that woman abusing you as part of an investigation."

"I'm simply doing what must be done in order to finish the game."

"What must be done?"

"You certainly are repeating yourself a lot today," Sherlock said, going for the coffee cup again.

"That's it," John said, jumping up. Sherlock realized the ex-soldiers intentions just a bit too slow to escape as John grabbed his jacket, forcing it off, making Sherlock gasp in pain. Even if he hadn't caught on so slowly he probably wouldn't have been able to escape with the way his hamstrings were so taut and bruised from Irene's crop.

"Sherlock, just how much has she hurt you?"

"For her, I imagine only a moderate amount."

"Don't you dare stand up," John said, pulling Sherlock's chair out from the table and moving around front to undo Sherlock's buttons.

"I'm fine."

"No you're not. You forget sometimes that I'm a doctor, don't you?" John demanded as he continued to rapidly unbutton the very posh dark purple shirt.

"John, don't," Sherlock said, grabbing his friend's hands. John stopped what he was doing for a moment, looking up into the other man's eyes.

"As your doctor, I need to see," he said simply. Sherlock sighed heavily and let him go, allowing John to finish buttoning his shirt. He couldn't stop him, but he sure as well wasn't going to help. "Just be good," he said, wincing as Sherlock snorted. "Okay, sorry, Jesus," John muttered making Sherlock smirk more.

He finished with the last button and started to pull Sherlock's shirt off. Sherlock gasped again and John suddenly began to be very carefully in pulling down the shirt. He came around back, wincing at what he saw, but focusing more on the first. The second it was off both the consulting detective's wrists, John let it drop to the floor and got a real eyeful of the damage.

There were some minor lacerations, but those came more from continued beating over healing and sensitive skin. The marks that there were have clearly been cleaned and tended to and where knitting together nicely. It was unlikely that Sherlock would scar from these wounds. Yet his back still looked like a battlefield. There were a myriad of bruises, all crisscrossing, straight and narrow with a occasional rounded bruise, though those were lighter. The bruises overlapped. Some were clearly days old, now black, grey or yellow instead of purple and blue. Others were fresh or made worse from continually beating the same area. From the smell, aloe had been applied to the skin to help with the healing process, not that it would really help that much.

From the bruise pattern and the extensive nature of the injury, John could see that extended down bellow Sherlock's belt line and probably across is buttocks and legs. "My God! Sherlock!"

"There's nothing you can do. They'll heal on their own if left alone," Sherlock said, knowing just how ugly they must have looked from his studies of bruising on bodies and what he'd glimpsed in the mirror.

"Or it'll just get worse is she continues to hurt her. When's the last time she's whipped you?"

"Yesterday morning, right before we saw Mycoft."

"Your brother suspected that she'd just hurt you," John said.

"He'd probably know," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

John just stared at him for a moment, completely open mouthed before shutting his mouth to keep from looking like a fish out of water. He rubbed his forehead, trying to get his thoughts together to explain his objections. "What's she's doing… it's not normal."

"I assure you that a BDSM lifestyle is practiced by-"

"Not like that," John said.

"Then like what, pray tell?"

"Safe, sane and consensual? Ever heard of it?"

"Yes?" Sherlock said, not getting John's point.

"There are important things like safe words or contracts are there?"

"Oh, please, those are hardly necessary," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, because you're too stubborn to ever say no to anything so long as you think it'll get you what you want, and she's not going to stop so long as she's enjoying herself," John said. Both slipped into silence, Sherlock looking in John's eyes, trying to understand the nature of his displeasure.

"Do you think she's going to cripple me, or kill me?" Sherlock asked.

"No, I'm sure she's professional enough to keep from doing both, besides…"

"Besides, it's no fun if I'm out of the game," Sherlock filled in. "Then why are you upset."

"I'm upset because…" John stopped, calmed his voice and took a breath. "I'm not upset about your body, or your mind. I'm upset about your heart, which you have whether you think about it or not. I was wrong, you're not a machine," John said.

"You're upset about that? You said something in anger, I didn't take it personally," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock," John said, laying his hand awkwardly on Sherlock's chest to keep from touching some of the injured area. "Focus, that's not the point."

"Are we getting to the point."

"Yes, do you ever shut up?"

"I don't know, is that the point?" Sherlock asked with a smirk.

John chuckled despite himself. "You're completely insufferable. Sherlock, the point is that I'm afraid that she's hurting you, not your intellect or your body, but you, your heart, your core, your soul, whatever you deign to call it. I'm afraid that whenever you get what you want you'll have sacrificed to be able to come home," John said.

"I'm not going to war, John," Sherlock said.

"Yes, for you, you are," John said. "Although I honestly don't know how you'd do in a war either, but anyway," he said, getting himself distracted. "What I mean is this: you don't do well when you lose. You get grouchy, you start… being weird. You were weird after Moriarty got off, that but you were weird before too. I mean, how is it even possible to think the victim did killed himself in Cluedo?"

"I was right, John," Sherlock said.

"No. No you weren't. It's against the rules, and don't say the rules are wrong. It's very straight forward how the game works Sherlock, but I won and you flipped out and made up a scenario outside of the world so you could win."

"Hmm…" Sherlock said, suddenly looking fascinated.

"Am I getting through to you?" John asked, not hardly believing it.

"No, you're spouting nonsense, but it's good to know just how Mycroft got to you," Sherlock said.

"Dammit Sherlock! I'm serious! You started acting really sulky after Irene beat you!" John snapped, getting loud and angry so Sherlock wouldn't dare to interrupt him. "You were pissed because she bested you and you saw that immediately, and you were pissed that she stuck you with that thing and ran off with the phone, and you were pissed that she used you, that she read you like a book, that she made you lose. And then when she won everything you got really pissed and angry. You started needing cigarettes more, and we were all on constant alert because you were acting like you wanted your drugs again," he said.

"You didn't know me back then," Sherlock said softly.

"What?" John said, having missed it.

"I said, you didn't know me back then, so how do you know how I was acting?"

"Because your brother told me, and so did Lestrade. He told me, by the way, that he'd seen you before, when you were at your worst, and other times when you looked like you were about to relapse."

"I'm in complete control, John."

"No, you're not. She is. It's like you're on drugs all over again. You're incapacitating yourself."

"I never did anything that would affect my ability to think."

"Yes, thinking, bloody brilliant!" John snapped. "You realize that your life isn't all about thinking, and your body isn't just transport, you bloody idiot."

"No, John, that's exactly what my life is."

"No, Sherlock, you just wish it was. Sex stops you from being able to think, so does extreme pain. When she's with you, I mean actually with you, can you think at all, does your mind let you think about things besides what's going on in that moment? Does it even let you think on the biological or cellular level?"

Sherlock went dead silent for a moment. "I just haven't worked out how yet."

"There's no working it out!" John snapped, starting to pace. He scrubbed his hands over his face. "There's not working it out. This is like you being on drugs, except worse. She, she controls you, everything you do. If you don't give her what she wants then she hurts you, hurts you bad enough that you think, and then there's sex where you also can't think. You may have always been able to think when you were on drugs. Can you honestly tell me that you are always able to think now?"

"No," Sherlock said through his teeth, getting angry but not able to just stand up and walk out.

John took a deep breath. He needed to keep some kind of control of himself, to try and not get the both of them yelling at each other, or Sherlock hurting himself worse. "I'm out one job, and Mycroft's paying for me to stay. I bloody well hate Paris, but I'm going to stick around for a while."

"What for? If you hate it so much, why stay?"

"Because you're my friend, and so far you've proven that I'll always pick and come help you when you need me."

"I don't need you," Sherlock said, but he knew it was a lie. So did John.

"Told you, you can be a real God awful liar," John said. "I don't think it's healthy for you to be here. I'm going to stick around here and try to convince you that you should pack up and come home as soon as possible, cut your losses."

"I don't work that way," Sherlock said.

"I know, it's my job to find a way that you can work that way," John responded. "So far, I've submitted one argument. I know that's not going to be enough for you, so I'll keep coming back until I've convinced you."

"You can't make me change my mind," Sherlock said.

"And you can't make me stop trying," John said. He reached out a bit awkwardly seeming to consider tousling Sherlock's flaming ginger locks, though changed his mind because he knew he'd never get away with that and instead touched Sherlock's shoulder, careful not to hurt him anymore.

"You know, if you boys wanted to play doctor…" Irene said, trailing off as she came into the room. John's hand came off Sherlock so fast. Irene laughed. "Your thirty minutes are up, Dr. Watson."

"That's fine," John said, straightening up. "I'll be back later."

"When?" Irene asked.

"Not sure, we'll need to sort out visitation rights," John said, making Sherlock grimace at the wording. He was not a child being lobbed between two parents.

"Just how long do you intend to be staying in Paris?"

"I don't know… for as long as Mycroft will keep putting me up, I expect," John said before looking back at Sherlock. "I'll see you later in the week," he told Sherlock who just nodded. He turned back to Irene, walking toward both her and the exit. He paused momentarily at the door, standing beside her. He just looked at her, trying to deduce any weakness in her. He wasn't Sherlock Holmes, though, and he couldn't see anything… he wasn't sure even the Holmes brothers could see through her anymore.

"Something wrong Doctor?" Irene asked, clear as day. Sherlock's eyes were on them both, trying to figure out what was passing between them.

John turned his head away so Sherlock wouldn't be able to see his lips, and spoke very softly. "I have no problem with killing you if I think this is too much for him," John said simply. "Thank you for breakfast," he said louder. He walked out, headed back to his flat.

"What did he say?" Sherlock asked once John had gone.

"Just a little secret between friends," Irene said, shutting the door and walking over to him. "Those do look nasty, I can see why he'd be so angry," she said to Sherlock.

She stood behind him and started to massage his shoulders, the butt of her palms digging into his muscles to work out the stress, though he gasped in pain as she completely ignored his bruising in favor of an incredible massage. "Tell me where it hurts."

Sherlock shut his mouth and didn't make a sound.


	9. Chapter 9

John received a text message from Irene Adler two days after his visit.

Let's have dinner

Irene

It was such a simple message. John stared at it for a moment, remembering just how many texts Irene had sent Sherlock with the name line: "I'm not hungry, let's have dinner". He took ten minutes to respond because he wasn't sure if she was flirting with him (which made him feel betrayed for Sherlock, who he felt was probably in love with her, no matter what he said to the contrary) or if she was referring to the old texts she'd sent to Sherlock to make John feel uncomfortable, or if she was honestly just asking him to dinner.

Why?

John

There, direct and to the point. All he could hope was that she thought he'd simply taken time to see her message, and not that it took him time to type and retype a message about seven times before it was actually perfect.

We need to discuss Sherlock. Let's have dinner.

Irene

John let out a sigh of relief, maybe she was flirting or trying to annoy him, but she was doing it because of Sherlock. He almost didn't doubt that she loved him too, though she had a very twisted way or showing it. She was possibly Sherlock's exact opposite, as well as Moriarty's. She was smart, but didn't ignore her body like they seemed to. She reveled in her body. Part of John felt it was very healthy for someone to introduce Sherlock to his own body, but John really didn't think it should be Irene Adler.

When and where?

John

* * *

John shifts a bit in the red leather chair that he's been seated in. He feels too dressed down in the establishment, though there were certainly other patrons who were dressed up less than him. He just felt wrong. He felt like the sore thumb, the odd man out. It didn't help that Irene was wearing a green dress that hugged her body its very best advantageous, making her look both unattainably sexy and yet very professional. It was very suit-like dress.

He, on the other hand, had just dragged out his nice pants, brushed his teeth and worn his standard jacket out. He would never have clothes that fancy in appearance. "So," John said, glancing at the waiter, who'd walked off after Irene ordered both of their meals for the entire evening, from appetizer dessert.

"So?" Irene asked, shifting just a bit in her chair so she could lean back and relax a bit more.

"So," John said again.

"I can tell you have a lot on your mind, Dr. Watson. Why don't we just get it over with and jump into things," Irene said.

"Why did you invite me to dinner?" John asked.

"We need to talk about Sherlock," Irene said.

"About him or about how you treat him?" John asked, stopping his speech when the waiter returned with the wine Irene had ordered (white to go with the fish he could kind of guess she'd ordered for them.)

"A bit of both," Irene said once the waiter left.

"Then let's talk," John said in a surly fashion.

"Yes, let's," Irene said. She took a sip of her wine and then went very quiet. She seemed very content, just sitting there, sipping her wine like they had nothing to talk about.

"Well?" John asked.

"Well what, Dr. Watson?" Irene asked, not looking up from her wine.

"Are we going to talk about Sherlock, or not?"

"Oh, I'm just waiting for you to pick the topic since you seem to be bursting with want to speak," Irene said.

John looked like he temporarily was considering jumping across the table and strangling her. His fingers were twitching anyway. He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. "I assumed you had a specific topic you wanted to cover. We should go ahead and get that out of the way."

"Yes, but I'm not the one who's about to jump across the table and strangle someone," Irene said, smirking when John jumped. "Yes, you are just that obvious," she added.

"Why did you pick this place?" John asked.

"Is that really your first question?"

"You play games; you only do things for a reason, especially when it involves Sherlock, so there has to be a reason."

Irene smirked, taking a sip of her wine. "I was right about you," she said.

"Right about what?" John asked.

"I picked this place because it was where I took Sherlock the first night he came to Paris," she said.

"So, what you're recreating your first date?"

"No, trust my judgment a little Dr. Watson. What I picked for him is not the same thing as what I picked for you."

"Why?"

"I made my way in the world by being able to read people. I earned good money by being able to figure out what people wanted and needed and then getting it to them," she said. "I can read anyone's tastes because if I couldn't then I never would have been able to do what I did."

John sat in his seat for a moment as the waiter from the appetizers. "You are brilliant," he said, really seeing it for the first time. No wonder Sherlock had such trouble with her. She could read people just as well as him, but she actually understood the sentiment bit. "You've got Sherlock running in circles don't you?"

"At the moment I've got him tied to the bed waiting for me to come home," she said, smirking when John grimaced. "So, let's hurry this up a bit."

"You're hurting him," John said.

"That's what I do," she said. "Besides, he likes it," she said.

"No, he doesn't," John said automatically without thinking.

"Give me some credit Dr. Watson. Your friend, he doesn't eat or sleep when he's on a case… you think that would reduce his ability, but it doesn't. He's best when he's suffering. Pain, discomfort, it clears his mind right up. He can divorce himself better when he's stimulated to have to ignore his body or pass out. He runs on pain, doesn't he?"

John seemed hesitant to answer. "You are good," he said, but it was grudging.

"Sherlock Holmes is, as I have told him, a dominant masochist. Whenever he gets over his fear of his own body he will be happiest to tell his love exactly how to hurt him."

"Isn't that your job, to hurt people?"

"I'm afraid I'm more dominant than submissive. I don't really like being ordered around."

"You wouldn't mind it if Sherlock did it," John said. "There are a lot of things you wouldn't mind if he did it. You love him," he said. "You're willing to compromise a lot for him."

"Yes, I do love him," she said.

"And he loves you as well," John said.

Irene seemed honestly taken aback. "You can tell?"

"I'm not 100%, but you're special to him, different than how he sees Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson, or me. He only ever has one of each category."

"Meaning?"

"I'm his best friend. Mrs. Hudson is his chosen mother. Lestrade is work friend/trusted colleague. These are normal things for people to have, important in their own way, and Sherlock resents any person who fits into his life that he doesn't get to pick, like Mycroft, who he's just stuck with."

"He didn't pick me," Irene pointed out. "I picked him."

"Neither of you picked each other, but you keep choosing each other. He'd rather be with you, completely destroying himself in the process than be at home in his normal routine. You'd rather be with him, risking absolutely everything you've worked your entire life to gain just so you can have five more minutes to be with him. You didn't want to leave him… so you tied him down so you could be sure he'd be there when you got home."

"I was right about you Dr. Watson… and Sherlock agreed with me," she said, sipping her wine until she drained the glass.

"What were you right about?" John asked, feeling confused and annoyed that the last time he's asked, she'd ignored him.

"You are one of us."

"Excuse me?" John asked.

"You are one of us, myself, Sherlock, even Jim," she said, making John frown. "You're not the smart and manipulative kind, but you're not just a normal person. You're attracted to all of this. You're brilliant at seeming normal, because you know how to survive. You will survive anything, and you're the reason Sherlock has been able to live these past two years. You're his reason to be human, you know," she said.

"I don't understand."

"You can see people just as good as I or Sherlock can. You just see their hearts. It's not flashy, in fact it's very normal, but it's important. You are attracted to the danger, the thrill, but you're attracted to people too, which is why you can hide just how much of a freak you really are. You're one of us, and the fact that Jim never saw it proves just how good you are," Irene said.

"I'm still not sure I understand."

"You don't have to. All you have to know is that I trust you with Sherlock, which is why I have a proposal for you."

"What you came to talk about," John said.

"Two days a week," Irene said. "I will let him out two days a week to flit off and be with you for adventure or whatever you do."

"Three days," John said.

"Two and a half," Irene said.

"Fine," John said. Two and a half days he could work on getting Sherlock out was better than none. "Why?"

"Sherlock loves you," she said, chuckling when John grimaced. "As his mate," she added before he could declare his straightness again. "You make him happy… and I trust you," she said.

"You trust me?"

"To take care of him, to protect him, to make him happy, and to bring him home," she said.

"Do you trust him?"

"No, not at all."

John stared at her for a minute. "You can't…" he stopped, looked down, composed his thoughts took a breath and started over. "You can't have a healthy relationship and not trust your partner," he said.

"Sherlock doesn't trust me either."

"Why should he? You aren't in a relationship. You're his new Moriarty. You're playing a game of chess, except this time instead of it being about crime and being smarter than each other, it's about deceiving each other, while you're both stupidly in love and sex is involved."

"In other words, even more screwed up," Irene said.

"Exactly… you know if you could just let him win a little."

"He'd hate me for it. You think I beat him because I like it? I do, but he hates to think I'm going easy on him. He'd hate me if I tried to give him a safe word or I set boundaries with him. He'd think I was babying him. If he wins he has to do it on his own."

"If he wins, you lose everything," John said.

Irene smiled, but it wasn't her normally self-assured smile. It was sad, lonely, and John was suddenly reminded of Molly Hooper and the sad smiles she had for Sherlock when his back was turned… wanting and yet unable to have what she wanted. "It's a risk I'm willing to take," she said.

John took a sip of the wine, needing to steady himself. He wished it was whiskey, but set that wish aside. "This all ends with him winning."

"I know," Irene said.

"He'll figure it out and take everything," John said.

"I know. I've taken precautions," she said. "I won't lose everything."

"Just most of it," John said.

"I'll survive," she said. "I always do."

"What do you hope to gain then?"

"I bit of time," she said. She smiled a bit. They both went quiet as the waiter took their barely touched appetizers and brought their actual dinner. "I have to thank you Dr. Watson."

"What for?" John asked.

"It's nice to know that Sherlock Holmes loves me," she said.

"You're going to destroy him," John said. "The way you're playing this game… it's mutually assured destruction. He's going to win, but he'll be broken for it, you realize that right?"

"Then he can't forget me, can he?" she asked with a smirk.

"You're really a terrible person."

"Well, I'm no dear old Jim, but I do my best," she said with a laugh. John grimaced.

"You're okay with breaking Sherlock Holmes."

"I'll have left my mark on something touchable. There's no greater thrill," she said, starting to eat.

John stared at her for a long while before starting to eat as well. He guessed that she wouldn't leave until they'd both eaten their fill. Even if he had to choke on it, he needed to finish his meal. The main course seemed to drag on and on, and John was glad when it was over. Their glasses and been refilled for the third time, and the waiter returned quickly with little bowls of ice cream.

"What's this?"

"Lavender ice cream," Irene said, taking a bit of her own. "Take a bite," she ordered.

He hesitated, feeling like a petulant child. He didn't think he could get away with not eating it, but he was going to do it on his own time table. He'd wait… or he thought about it until he remember that Sherlock was tied up and stuck waiting for this dinner to be over. He started to eat, feeling like he would choke on it.

Irene smirked. "Good boy."

"Don't," John said. "Don't talk to me like you talk to him. If you've at least got to be as bloody well screwed up as you are, you should do it with only him."

"Monogamy," Irene said. "I never believed in it," she said.

"Until," John said, waiting for the punch line. He started to eat quickly.

"Slow down Dr. Watson, you'll get and ice cream headache," Irene said, eating slowly. John did slow down, knowing she wouldn't leave until she'd finished her own. She had a lot more self control than he did. He could tell she wanted to go home as well, but she was playing her game and was going to win this round. He let her win, slowing down, matching her eating speed.

"Until?" He asked.

"I don't want anyone else but him," She said simply.

"I'm not sure he's ever wanted anyone else before either," John said.

Irene smiled, a very real and very beautiful smile that made John's heart skip. "Thank you, Dr. Watson."

"Just finished your ice cream," John grumbled. Irene's warm laughter filled the restaurant.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was supremely unhappy when Irene Adler finally returned. She'd tied him very securely to her mattress, with enough slack that he could shift around and not have his newly aching muscles (he'd spoken English to a man at a social function Irene had taken him to) seize up under him. That didn't mean that he hadn't been in constant pain since she left him, dressed up incredibly and specifically sexy to see John Watson.

She'd been trying to make him jealous. Sherlock was shocked when he'd realized that it had. It made him angry that she dressed up to seduce his friend. It made him angry that she got to see John and he didn't. It made him angry that she'd tied him down and left him there, though that was just part for the course. What really made him angry was that she just walked past him when she came in, ignoring him completely. She walked into her closet to change, not even casting him a glance.

His breath caught in his throat when she came out. She was wearing white lace; sheer enough that he could see the color and outline of her skin, but not actually see anything. Logically he understood why it was so tantalizing (made to show just enough to excite the imagination, but not actually show anything, which would make a person want to see what was under the little piece.) that didn't mean that it didn't have the desired effect. It covered her breast down to mid thigh, but he really wished he could push it up past her hip.

Irene smiled at him and his train of thought (wondering what type of game she'd pick this time) came to a halt. He saw that smile sometimes, last time when they'd watched movies together and started debating about the cultural significance of the pooka. It wasn't predatory, or game, or anything other than just a smile. He illogically wished he could bottle it.

"Tonight will be a little different," Irene said, crawling on top of him. She straddled his hips, making him groan from the pain this caused him.

"What did you talk about with John?"

"You mostly," Irene said, running her fingertips. She kept smiling and he couldn't look away from it.

"What did he say?" he asked.

"Nothing you need to know about," she said, but she just smiled more.

"Tell me," Sherlock said, feeling that stab of jealousy again.

"We agreed to share," she said. "You'll have two and a half days a week to spend with him from now on."

"What? Really?" Sherlock asked, not having expected her to let him go.

"He's important to you," she said simply. "And I do love you," she said, leaning down and kissing him.

"How is tonight different?" he asked.

"You're going to tell me what you want me to do you," she said, rubbing her hands back and forth in circles over his chest. There was pressure where she was almost massaging him, but not quiet. Right now she was just touching him.

"What I want," Sherlock repeated, starting to think. She meant it to. She'd do whatever he wanted. The words she'd said before slipped across his mind. _Dominant masochist._ So what did he want? He couldn't think with those damn little circles.

"Yes, love, what you want," she breathed, starting to kiss from his navel up to his neck, making his stomach tremble. He couldn't think. It was terrifying. "Well, what do you want?" She asked.

"Bite me," he said, gasped really. He was a bit surprised to hear it come out of his mouth. But he wanted it. He actually did want that.

"Of course," she purred from where she'd been kissing his neck. Suddenly she took a hard bite on his neck, making him groan. She sunk her teeth in more and he groaned harder. She pulled back, her nose pressed to his, looking into his eyes. "Is that what you want?"

"More," he gasped.

"What?"

"More!" he snapped.

"Yes, princess," she said with a warm laugh. He moved, capturing his lips. She got caught up in his kiss that she liked so much. "Ow," she said, pulling away, touching her bottom lip that he'd bit hard enough to make it bleed

"Don't do it again," he ordered.

"I'm not calling you master," she said and bent down, placing a kiss on bite on his neck, starting to kiss down the sensitive skin until she got to the juncture of neck and shoulder, the spot right behind the collar bone where his back started. She bit, hard, harder than his neck, making him gasp in pain. She didn't stop until she tasted his blood. Then she sat up, licking her lips, tasting his blood and hers. They tasted the same, but knowing the two were mingling just fit so wonderfully in her mind.

"You should," he said, panting a bit from pain. His back was still healing, still bruised, with new bruises added from the terrible beating he'd gotten the previous night. She was laying her full weight on his body, which just made it all worse. But the bites, sharp and painful dragged his mind away from his back. He forgot about his back when she bit him. He could think about her lips and the way they fit against his skin and the way her games worked. He could think. "Again," he ordered.

"You're such a bossy little thing," she said, biting hard onto his shoulder until she tasted blood again. She kept biting until she got a gasp out of him.

"Again!" he snapped. For just a moment he'd had clarity of thought, his mind reeling as he covered the floor plan of her home, trying to figure out where she could have hidden the camera phone.

She reached behind him and pinched his abused back while she bit his bicep, taking his gasp to a pained moan. "Don't order me."

"Oui, madame Adler," he said, but he looked grumpy. At least he'd said it.

"Good boy," she said, feeling her stomach twist. John Watson had been right. She didn't want to talk to other people like she spoke to Sherlock. She moved down, partially overlaying one bite with another. She bit him again, after she'd moved a bit, though the bite still overlay over the previous two. "You want more? Say please."

"Please," he said, his deep voice annoyed, but it still thrummed through her chest. She started to bite up and down his left arm. She made sure the bites over lapped, that she drew blood and that he got from his fingertips to his shoulder, front, side, back, and underside. She doubted he'd be using that arm much the next day. The sounds he made were so wonderfully pleasant too: pained by desperate for more.

"Say please," she said, starting to kiss his lips again. "Ow," she gasped when he bit his again, just like she wanted him to.

"Please," he snarled.

"Good boy," she purred, by passing his collarbone for later to attack his chest. Again, over lapping bites, though this time she paid particular attention to his nipples, which provided her some wonderfully wanton sounds to listen to. They would hurt even worse than his arm in the morning. She'd practically chewed them up. She probably should have felt bad, but he'd screamed so wonderfully.

"Please," he gasped, tugging at his bonds when she stopped to sit up on his hips.

"Didn't even have to ask this time," she said, moving down to the deliciously sensitive skin on his navel. A warm feeling was setting into her stomach. She had been right about him, about what he liked. He wanted this. He'd growl at her in the morning about the pain, but that didn't mean that he didn't want it. She continued to bite down his body, ignoring his groin in favor of his sensitive thighs, calves and feet.

"Stop! Stop!" he gasped when she tickled the bottom of his feet.

"Oh… I didn't know you were ticklish here," she said, tickling his arch which produced a desperate and pained laugh. He suddenly was going crazy trying to break out of his bounds, cutting up his feet and ankles in the process. She stopped tickling, not because she couldn't keep hold anymore (which she could) but because she'd want to visit his tickling spot later when it could actually be a game. She bit his arch instead, making him gasp. "Better?"

"B-better," he said, panting down and out of breath.

"Let's see what else I can do for you this evening," she purred, starting to move her biting back up his body.


	10. Chapter 10

"John, I don't want to go fishing. Do you even know how to fish?"

"I don't want to fish either, but if I'm in this city for one more bloody second I might turn to homicide," John grumbled as he loaded the supplies he's bought with Mycroft's money into the car he'd bought with Mycroft's money. John didn't drive. They didn't give driver's cards to men with PTSD, and Sherlock _Bloody_ Holmes was one of the few men John knew who had a license in seven different countries.

"I thought you've already turned to homicide," Sherlock said in a way that was just so very him that John resisted the urge to grab and hug him.

"Yes, but I always had good reason in the past. I won't have good reason now."

"I think being trapped somewhere you don't want to be is a good reason," Sherlock said.

John looked over at Sherlock for a long moment, not sure how to respond to that. Finally he just opted to ignore it. "I hate your hair," he said.

"Irene likes it. I don't really get a vote at this point," Sherlock said with a wince.

"Let's talk about fish," John said.

"What? Why?" Sherlock asked, taken aback by the sudden change of topic.

"The idea is to not think about anything related to Paris for the next two and a half days. That's the goal," John said. "You think you can do that?"

"No."

"Me neither, but we'll try. That's why it's a goal," John said, leaning back in his seat.

"Do you even know how to fish?"

"I learned… I'm not very good at it and you'll get to see a fish drag me into the water, I'm sure, which is why I brought extra changes of clothes," John said.

"What are we going to do with the fish?" Sherlock asked.

"On the hypothetical and highly improbably chance that we're actually able to catch any…. I really have no idea… give them away?"

"You really aren't prepared for this trip, are you?" Sherlock asked.

"I told you, first thing I could think of to get out of Paris. I didn't care after that, and I had to use bloody Google translator to understand the stupid thing."

"Do you actually know where we're going?"

"Not a clue, why you're driving."

Sherlock found himself chuckling. "I've never been fishing before."

"Not practical for a Consulting Detective?"

"No practical for anyone besides a fisherman, but that's hardly the point."

"What did you do as a child?"

"A lot of things. Childhood is a very long time period in a person's life," Sherlock said.

"I mean, did you do normal kid things like go to the park or the zoo, or a circus?"

"Did you go to the circus?" Sherlock asked, glancing over and John who shrugged.

"Not really my thing."

"Afraid of clowns?"

"No," John said, giving Sherlock a look, but Sherlock was smiling… just a bit, but it was enough. "Contortionists freaked me out, and we couldn't afford it anyway."

"Did you go to the zoo?"

"Of course, loads of times, did you?"

"Of course, a perfectly good place for observation, of lower animals and humans," Sherlock said.

"How about an amusement park."

"Also a good place for observations," Sherlock said.

"I meant did you go to one?"

"A few times."

"Did Mycroft take you?"

"I've deleted it," Sherlock said, his hands clenching the steering wheel a bit too tightly.

"No you didn't. Something embarrassing happened and you don't want to tell me."

"There's no way _you_ can possibly know that," Sherlock spat.

"You don't need to hold on that tight to the steering wheel," John pointed out innocently. "So tell me, what happened."

"No."

"No? That's it? Just no?"

"Yes."

"No, Sherlock, come on. You've got to tell me."

"I don't _got_ to do _anything,_ John."

"I'll trade you."

"Trade me? Trade me what? For what?" Sherlock asked, his speech picking up speed as he got agitated.

"I'll trade you, one embarrassing story of mine for one of yours, back and forth. No embellishing to make it better and the other gets to pick which story. Do we have a deal?" John asked.

"Quid pro quo, then?" Sherlock asked. He went silent, really thinking about it before he nodded. "Alright, deal."

"Good, now tell me your story about the amusement park."

"No," Sherlock said.

"We made a deal."

"You go first."

"Why?"

"How do I know that you won't renege?"

"You don't trust me?"

"Not on this, no," Sherlock said, looking over at John. John could tell this is exactly what Sherlock would do.

"Fine, but if you renege then I'm not speaking to you for the rest of the weekend."

"You don't mean that," Sherlock said.

"I absolutely do," John said. Sherlock studied him, and John could tell by the unsettled look on the consulting detective's face that he knew John was serious. "So, what story do you want to hear?"

"You know which one I want," Sherlock said.

John groaned loudly. "Come on, not that one."

"John, this was your idea," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"Fine, you complete insufferable ass," John said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "So…" he said, trailing off a bit. He really didn't want Sherlock to know this story. He was going to be teased with it at such awkward moments. People already thought they were a couple.

"So?" Sherlock asked, smirking as he drove.

"So about two months before I got shot some of us had a bit of leave to go into town. I don't even know where they got that much alcohol, but they just kept filling my glass. Just over and over, shot after shot. Normally I'm careful, but it had been a God-awful day with surgery, and I'd be able to sleep in once morning rolled around. I didn't even want to think. They kept pouring and I kept drinking. I don't think I've ever been that drunk."

"Get on with it," Sherlock said.

"I'm telling it, not you," John said, scowling.

"Fine, just continue," Sherlock said.

"I would have been done with the story by now if you didn't keep interrupting."

"Fine, just keep going."

"Fine, well, the other men in my unit set it all up. They had wanted to see just what they could get me to do if I was drunk, really drunk. They decided about what they'd try to get me do and they set everything up before hand, I found out later. I was dead drunk, and they told me that there was a woman who was flirting with me. They helped me up and sent me over… and one thing led to another and I started to kiss her…" he said, trailing off, wincing at his pieced together memories and the pictures he'd seen.

Sherlock started to grin. "You made out with a man."

"Yeah, so I was drunk off my arse."

"John who's always so very straight, made out with a man."

"Shut up Sherlock. If this gets out to anyone, and I mean anyone I will kill you in your sleep."

"I'll have to tell Irene."

"No, shut up, you can't tell her!" John snapped. Oh she would looooove that.

"Aren't I supposed to tell her everything, aren't we in what you'd call a relationship?"

"I wouldn't call it a damn thing except twisted beyond all reason."

"Hm… interesting word choice."

"Sherlock, you've got to keep that story to yourself," John said.

"Yeah, yeah I won't tell."

"And you won't casually snap it out when you're annoyed at me during a case when Lestrade's around? And you won't use it against me when your brother's around? Or Samford? Or Molly?"

"Mycroft probably already knows."

"Sherlock, focus. I get enough looks just walking next to you all the time. I don't need this one story getting out. I'll never get a girl again," John said.

"Fine, I won't tell."

"You promise?"

"Hm?"

"Promise Sherlock, will you promise you won't tell?"

"I promise."

"Good, now tell me your story."

"Fine," Sherlock said. He kept his eyes very focused on the road in a way he hadn't before. He didn't want to see John's reactions. "When I was twelve I bothered Mycroft into taking me to the amusement park. I wanted to observe people and there was a new ride I wanted to try," Sherlock said. "A roller coaster," He said.

"And?" John asked, being far too encouraging.

"Mycroft took me on the ride, and I got sick," Sherlock said.

"That's it?" John asked. "You were twelve and got sick? That's nothing."

"It's not nothing, John!" Sherlock snapped, and John was taken aback. "My body's just supposed to be transport. I'm in control of it. My mind is in control. I shouldn't have lost my stomach like that. I'm supposed to be stronger than that," Sherlock said.

John felt like he was walking through ha verbal minefield. It was nothing, it was normal, but for Sherlock it was a very personal failure, something he'd buried and felt ashamed of. Sherlock hadn't been in control of his body… damn, John did not want to talk about Irene Adler. "Well, you don't do it anymore," John said, brushing it off. "You're obviously in better control of yourself. Better it was then and not now. You can get away with mistakes like that when you're twelve," he said.

"Right," Sherlock said. He seemed… well a bit comforted. Damn, it looked like John was going to need to enlist help about this later. Not Mycroft. He'd probably been the one Sherlock had gotten sick on. Irene then… damn.

"Yeah… so your turn… what story do you want to know?" John asked.

"The Angela story."

"Christ, that one? It's so dull."

"It's the one I want. You won't let anyone tell me and I want to know," Sherlock said stubbornly.

John sighed heavily. "Just… Just… Sherlock, it's not interesting. The reason why I didn't tell you before was because you'll call me stupid."

"I call you stupid anyway."

"Yeah, but this was… hell, it was really stupid and not at all observant of me, and I was fifteen. It's really not worth it."

"I'll be the judge of that… now tell me," Sherlock ordered.

"You've gotten a lot bossier recently," John said.

"I've been taking lessons. Now start talking."

John scrubbed his hands over his face and sighed. "Okay, so I was 15 and I was taking two classes, back to back in the middle of the day. The first class was first year French, which I was taking with a class mixed of upperclassmen. The next class was just Lit, and it was just my grade. So, there was a girl named Angela in both classes. The Angela in French… well I fancied her a bit. She was older, fit in with the other upperclassman. I didn't know that she was in my grade, but it wouldn't have mattered because she was still far out of my reach. We were kind of friendly, but mostly I just focused I tried not to fail my tests."

"Keep going," Sherlock urged when John stopped to take a breath.

"Just shut up and don't interrupt or I'm not finishing. Got it?"

"Got it," Sherlock said and then promptly shut up.

"Well, anyway… so Angela in my Lit class was also in my grade. I was paired with her sometimes, but only at a table. We didn't really talk, but I thought she was really boring. She had ideas about the material that I'd already moved past. They were really basic. I didn't think she was very smart and she was one of the people who made the class boring. Anyway, one day, in spring, I was telling the French class Angela about something I had learned in the Lit. Class. She gave me this weird look and said: "But John, I know this… I'm in your class, remember?""

"What?" Sherlock asked and the promptly shut his mouth so fast his teeth clicked together. John glanced at him, but knew it was an accident, so he continued.

"See… there weren't two Angelas. There was only one. I just saw her so different in each class that I didn't connect them as being the same person." John stopped and winced. "Okay, tell me I'm and idiot and get it over with."

"You're and idiot and get it over with."

"Shut up!"

"What you told me too! Although it's interesting that you were really that unobservant. You're normally a lot better than that. And you said you fancied that girl too? You must have really been stuck in your self-centered phase."

"Oh sod off, Sherlock. This is why I didn't want to tell you. It's a funny story but you're just going to think how dumb I was."

"It is a funny story… but I don't think less of you John… you were fifteen right. If you did it now I might… know I still don't think I'd think less of you."

"Seriously?"

"You're worth more than you think you are," Sherlock said.

"Oh… well, your turn to tell a story."

"What do you want to hear?"

"I want to hear about the first time you kissed someone," John said.

"That's what you really want to hear about."

"Come on, the first time sucks for everyone. I actually missed my first time."

"How?"

"Tripped over my shoelaces. We laughed it off later," he said with a shrug. "Now you owe me a half of a story as well."

Sherlock shrugged. "It wasn't very interesting," he said. "It was just Molly."

"I meant on the lips," John said. "Not the cheek," he said. Though he could hardly believe that was the first time he kissed someone.

"That's what I meant too."

"What, seriously?"

"I needed to be able to deal with Irene," he said. "I was staying with Molly while my injuries healed from jumping like that, and I practiced with her. I guess maybe it was embarrassing. She was really shy, but eventually she started to tell me what to do… and after that we just practiced a lot."

"I can't believe it."

"It's true."

"No, I mean you using her like that."

"She knew what I was going to do. I told. I gave her a choice, and agreed. It's not like she got nothing out of it."

"She really likes you, Sherlock, and you kissed her, hell you made out with her. That's not kindness."

"I can't say she'd still be interested. I was very bad, apparently. It took a lot of instruction and practice before I got good."

"Did you 'get good'?" John asked, partly disgusted.

"Irene thinks so."

"Why do you keep using her name?"

"Because I can't when she's around and that annoys me," Sherlock said.

"Figured," John said, shifting back in his seat.

"Was it really bad?" Sherlock asked for a moment after they'd both been silent for a bit. "Kissing Molly."

"I don't know. I don't think it would be. You can hurt someone like that… she helped you, lied to all of us, put herself at risk… you know how much trouble she could get into for this? She could lose her job."

"Mycroft won't let that happen."

"He will if you thinks that she's a reason why you're in danger."

"I'm not in danger."

"You are in his mind, and mine for that mine."

"I'm not, what makes you think that apart from Mycroft's meddling?"

"I don't think we really want to discuss this now."

"No, I think we do," Sherlock said.

"Fine, because like we touched on before, you can't stand to lose. You lost to her, and you've been slowly slipping back to your old drug habits since that happened. You flipped out over cluedo, and you let Moriarty get to you… badly. You were aiming for an explosion, but you came here… and now you just keep losing, over and over. You're going to figure it all out one day, where he phone is, how to get it… but can you really come back after all this. Do you still just think of your body as transport?"

"Yes?"

"Really?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He looked honestly puzzled.

"You're not going to be the same. I'm not sure it's bad for you to have a lover of some kind, maybe once in a while. It probably won't be unhealthy, but by the time you get back she'll have battered all to hell your sense of yourself, which was battered just by her winning. And Mycroft will still look at you like you're a puppy he needs to protect… you really think this is going to make things better?"

"It's not about better."

"It's it? When you get back the media kicks right back up: detective returned from the grave. It's going to be worse even. Are you going to be able to deal with that and the Yard, half of which still thinks they were right? Hell, a lot of them were put on probation because of the whole mess. Myrcoft will smooth some things out because he'll be worried about you… but it's not going to be all better. And there's more."

"Oh, of course there's more," Sherlock said, stopping the car as they'd arrived. He got out, grabbing the gear. John got out, grabbing the other half of the things. They'd be staying at a cabin nearby the lake. They'd start fishing in the morning. For now they just needed to get their things inside.

"You're in love with her."

"No, I'm not," Sherlock said automatically as they took the things inside the little cabin.

"Yes, you are," John said.

"No I'm not. She's just a puzzle, just a game," Sherlock said.

"Bull," John said blankly.

"Is not," Sherlock said, dropping the bags and throwing himself down the very uncomfortable sofa.

"It is," John said. "No matter how much you try to ignore your body it's still a part of who you are. Your body is just as much a part of you are your mind, and the only way you can not think that is if you believed in such a thing as a soul, which I know you don't. Also, you trust, absolutely, that your senses will work which are form your body. You don't trust your body but you trust your senses. It's too much of a contradiction and she's going to make you see yourself for things you've refused to see before."

"Are we done with the inane posturing."

"You're the one who wanted to have the conversation."

"No, not this conversation. I don't want the conversation, I just don't want you to be mad at me anymore."

"Sherlock… that one… it's too big for now."

"I don't care. I want it to be done," Sherlock said.

"It's something that will take time."

"I don't care," Sherlock said.

"Fine… you want to start, this start… you betrayed me, Sherlock Holmes."

"No, I didn't. I told you. I had to 'die' so you wouldn't actually be killed. Once the snipers left it didn't matter, but if Mycroft knew then I wouldn't have been able to go."

"Yes, but you got to Irene's instantly. The first day you arrived here you went straight to her. You didn't tell Molly to tell me, and you didn't call or email me or anything."

"I didn't think you'd appreciate being told I'm alive over an email. You'd think it was a sick joke."

"I almost shot Mycroft when he told me… but that's just it. Once he knew, why didn't you tell me? It wasn't his business to tell me. It was your job, your duty as my friend. You told me that I was your friend. Leaving their friends to mourn… that's not something friends do."

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said. "I messed up."

"Do you actually feel like that?"

"A little," Sherlock said.

"We'll finish this conversation when you feel like it a lot," John said, plopping down on the sofa next to Sherlock. "Neither of us are ready for it, and we have to be up early for fishing.

"I don't want to go fishing," Sherlock said.

"Yes you do, you're curious."

"You're getting better," Sherlock said.

"You're giving me easy answers. Stop it. You're not making me feel better," John said, glancing over at Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged almost imperceptibly. "That doesn't mean that you aren't getting better, John."

"Just help me unpack," John said.

"How bad are you at fishing?"

"Pretty damn bad, but we'll muddle through the process. It's very possible one or both of us might end up in the stream, though."

"Well, that would at least be interesting," Sherlock said. John suddenly remembered why fishing might not be a good idea with Sherlock. If he was bored then it would be hell for him. If he was interested then he'd concentrate and probably enjoy the lack of movement. John rather hoped that Sherlock would enjoy himself. He'd hate to see how this weekend would turn out if Sherlock was bored the entire time.


	11. Chapter 11

John woke well before Sherlock. He wasn't sure why, but a part of him wondered if Sherlock couldn't do with more sleep. He certainly seemed to be less stick thin than he had been before, which meant he was eating (or that Irene was making him eat). John woke up at about 4am, slipping down the hall to the kitchen. He made coffee and two types of sandwiches (egg for breakfast, peanut butter and banana for later), wrapped them up and pour the coffee into travel mugs. Then he went to get Sherlock.

Sherlock did not like being woken up when he was getting well deserved rest. It wasn't John's fault that the sun rose so early and they needed time to hike down to the stream. "Sherlock, get the hell out of bed," John snapped, dragging Sherlock right off the bed because he was hugging so tight to the blankets. "You're already out of bed now get up," he said. "I know Irene bought you clothes you could ruin for the day, there's no point in wasting all that work."

"Sod off," Sherlock grumbled, gripping tighter to his blankets.

"I could give you a thorough examination instead," John threatened.

"I'm awake!" Sherlock growled, sitting up. John had been threatening to do a real examination of the damage Irene had done to his body. Neither of them was really keen on doing it, but if it got Sherlock up before the son rose, John was willing to make the threat.

"Just get dressed. I'll make sure everything else is ready," John said, letting Sherlock to himself while heading to make sure their bags were ready. He even brown bagged their food, which felt weird on its own. "Sherlock, come on!" He shouted, tapping his foot with annoyance.

"I'm coming," Sherlock grumbled. He trudged into view in clothes that were obviously made for wear and getting smacked around by a fish. Sherlock hadn't even gelled his hair that morning, making him look like a large sleepy teenager trying to avoid hanging out with his dad. John did not want to be the old man in this situation.

"Here," John said, handing Sherlock his rod and the sandwich bags.

"Thanks mummy," Sherlock said, smirking when John scowled.

"Just come on," John said, leading Sherlock out to the lake. He hadn't planned this out too well, so they just ended up hiking down to the water, picking a random place and sitting down. John let Sherlock eat his egg sandwich and drink his coffee to give him time to wake up and be less of a grumpy arse, while John started to get the rods ready.

"John?" Sherlock asked once he finished his sandwich.

"Yeah?" John asked, trying to pick which ridiculous rubber worm would look more appealing to a fish.

"You think we'll catch anything?"

"I don't know. I think we should get something," John says.

"What do you plan to do with it?"

"Oh, I don't know. We could try to cook it, but I'm sure I'd screw it all up."

"Can I dissect it?" Sherlock asked. John turned, offering Sherlock his fishing rod. "Yeah, sure, why not? Let's just try not to make such a big mess than we can't clean it up before we go back."

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Fine."

"Okay," John said, taking his own rod. "Let's cast and then I can have breakfast." He took a moment to show Sherlock how to cast and how to reel something in. He let Sherlock practice that once her twice before they both cast and settled in to wait. John pulled out his egg sandwich, starting to eat.

"Is this all there is to fishing?" Sherlock asked, watching John eat. "Just sitting around and waiting?"

"There's stuff to do once a fish bites."

"If a fish bites."

"Anyway, it's like waiting for a case."

"Oh Dull," Sherlock groaned. He was clearly wondering why John bothered to bring him out to do this. "Are were going to be out here all day?"

"Only till about noon," John said. "Speak a bit softer, we don't want to scare the fish. You don't want to catch one, don't you?" he asked. Sherlock grumbled, but didn't say anything. "We'll go in once it gets bright enough that the fish probably won't bite anymore."

"So, from five am to twelve pm, seven hours?"

"Yeah, today, and then again tomorrow, which should give us enough time to wash up, pack up, and get back to Paris," John said.

"Sounds boring," Sherlock said.

"It probably will be," John admitted, finishing his sandwich and focusing on his coffee.

"Why did you bring me to do something that's going to be boring?"

"I told you that I didn't think this through much."

"We could have gone hiking," Sherlock said.

"Would that have been more interesting for you?"

"At least we'd be moving," Sherlock grumbled, but softly.

"You're like a little kid, can't keep still for anything," John said.

"You know that isn't true," Sherlock said. John scowled. Of course he knew it wasn't. Sherlock could be practically catatonic when he wanted to be, wouldn't move at all so long as he was thinking. He barely even seemed to breathe.

"You're still like a little kid," John said a bit lamely. They lapsed into silence. John didn't try to talk, wondering if Sherlock even had time on his own to think. They just sat. John let his mind drift, back to before Sherlock had his fall, back in their flat. It had been easy… comparatively anyway. He had to worry about Sherlock blowing something up or getting stupidly hurt or not eating, but he didn't have to worry about him like John had to now.

"John?"

"Yeah?" John answered, jolted out of his thoughts.

"Your line," Sherlock said.

"Shit," John muttered, just realizing that his line was being pulled, not a lot but there was suddenly a very strong tug and John started to reel the fish in. He didn't bother standing up. The thing was putting up quiet a fight, but when he got out of the water it was obvious just how small it was. John pulled it off his line and tossed it back in the water.

"Why did you do that?" Sherlock asked.

"Too small," John said. "It's not very sporting."

"I see," Sherlock said. He was clearly concentrating now, curious about the process.

"I'll help you reel in your first one," John said. "Don't be discouraged if you lose your first one. It took me a while to figure out how to actually catch something," he explained. "And if it's a very big one, sometimes it will fight like crazy and you'll lose it, or the line will break."

"I'll be fine John. I'm not going to break into a million pieces because I lost a fish," Sherlock grumbled. He clearly remembered the conversation from the day before.

"Yeah, I know, but you also get annoyed when you mess up," John pointed out.

"I am going to catch on today. There won't be time to do a dissection tomorrow," Sherlock said. John sighed. Well, he did have a point.

"You can dissect one I catch."

"No, you just put them back. I'll catch one on my own," Sherlock said.

"It's like you're nine," John grumbled and cast his line again. He settled back into his spot, content to slip back into silence.

"Do you really hate Paris?" Sherlock asked. "I can't understand why you would."

"Really? That's what you want to talk about?" John asked, nearly rolling his eyes. "I mean, it's just not comfortable okay? Everything's so posh and I hate being looked at like I'm stupid because I'm crap at the language when I try because they look at me like I'm an idiot if I only speak English."

"Really?" Sherlock asked. That hadn't been experience. Then again, his French was perfect. Still, most people he knew only laughed it off if they were really as bad at French as John.

"Can we talk about something else?" John asked.

"That's fine," Sherlock said. They lapsed into silence again, both focusing on their lines for a few moments as they searched for something to say. "Have you tried going to a pub?"

"Really?" John asked. What part of him not liking Paris and not wanting to talk about it did Sherlock not get?

"You seem to like places more if there's a woman there you can get involved with. You certainly can't get involved with Amelia, and if you're really spending all your time indoors, then you're not meeting any women."

"I swear," John said, trying to find the words to express how weird is was for Sherlock to be saying that. "It's like I can't even tell if you're trying to get rid of me, or set me up. I can see the first one, since the only thing you ever seem to do is interrupt my dates," he said.

"You're going to be here for a while, and you hate Paris for reasons passing understanding, so you should try and find something that you find enjoyable."

It hit John then. Sherlock was feeling guilty. He felt guilty that John was stuck someplace he didn't like (especially since John could leave if Sherlock would leave) and he probably felt guilty about hurting John with the fake-suicide. Having rarely seen Sherlock really express any kind of remorse, John felt rather humbled, a bit like how he'd felt at Sherlock's friendship confession in Dartmoor.

"Yeah, maybe I will try a few pubs, then," John said, conceding. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, but John wasn't going to press the issue. He'd try to, because Sherlock was trying.

"What are you planning for the next outing?" Sherlock asked, his eyes back on his line.

"Hiking, probably," John said. "I think two days a week out of Paris is a good idea."

Sherlock made a noncommittal "hmn" noise. "John, my line," he said.

"Oh, good," John said, moving behind Sherlock, grabbing onto his arms to try and help him. "Now, start to reel it in. You need to give a bit of slack sometimes, not too much, enough so the line won't snap," he instructed. He helped Sherlock start to reel the fish in. It was obvious fairly quickly that whatever Sherlock had was too big and too much fight for Sherlock. The fish got away and took the plastic worm with it.

"Probably chock and die," Sherlock muttered, clearly pissed at losing the fish. Not an unnormal reaction, John mused as he went to find another rubber worm.

"Watch my line for me," John said, focusing on the bait box and trying to figure out what to use for Sherlock's line. The pink rubber worms seemed to work.

"John," Sherlock said.

"Yes, Sherlock?" John asked, not really paying attention.

"You've got something," Sherlock said.

John swiveled his head over, seeing Sherlock standing up, struggling with the rod and fish. He was trying to integrate what he'd seen John do to catch his fish, and what John taught him to do, but he was also having trouble. John jumped up and went to Sherlock, grabbing him from behind again to try and steady him. Whatever they had fought like hell though.

Sherlock gave a great tug, using John to keep him steady. The rod bent with the effort of getting the fish and it felt like a real fight just to reel in the line. Sherlock grit his teeth, feeling and overwhelming anger in his chest. It was one thing for Moriarty to force him to fall. It was one thing for his brother to pity him and look down on him as if he were a child again. It was one thing for Irene to beat him until he could barely move. He could deal with all of those things, but he was not going to allow a fish to beat him.

He shifted his stance to give himself a bit more balance and put his back more into the pull back. He started to work harder to reel the fish in, focused on just getting the fish out of the water so he could dissect it for a rather desperate catharsis. Sherlock was very focused on the what he would do with the fish once he had it part, imagining cutting it open, examining the insides as well as he could with no equipment, cataloguing the experience away in his mind palace in case of later necessity.

Sherlock was very focused on what he'd do with the fish once he had it, to the point that he didn't notice that this heels which he had dug into the bank for more leverage hand started to move forward as the fish tugged Sherlock as Sherlock tugged the fish. He ended up head first in the stream, followed by John (who'd still been holding on to try and keep Sherlock from falling in the stream).

"God dammit!" Sherlock shouted, standing up and stomping purposefully around in the water as if he could stomp on the fish that had pulled them in and kill it.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, you'll scare all the fish!" John protested, trying to get Sherlock to stop the incessant splashing.

"I don't care John! I don't care! I'm not allowed to be bested by a fish!" he snapped. He glared harder when he saw something in John's eyes shift.

"No, but it's a normal human thing. It was as accident."

"It was no accident. If I'd been concentrating better I would have noticed that I was sleeping and would have shifted in order to keep from ending up in the stream. This, this is why sentiment is useless! It' clouds the judgment."

"Well, unless you plan to get sentimental about a fish you plan to cut up, I can't see how that applies here at all," John said.

"It does!" Sherlock snapped. He took a deep breath and found a calmer tone. "It just does, John."

John sighed heavily, looking at Sherlock and himself, still standing in the stream, soaked to the bone. "Were you thinking about Irene?"

"No, I was not," Sherlock over enunciated.

"Were you thinking about me?"

"Of course not."

"Were you thinking about Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade?"

"No, why would I even think about them?"

"Were you thinking about Moriarty?"

"Why are you asking?"

"Just answer."

"No, I was not, now what are you asking about?"

"Sherlock, what were you thinking about when we got dragged in?"

"The dissection."

"Sherlock," John spoke gently and Sherlock wanted to punch him. "You're yelling at me about sentiments, but you were thinking about a fish."

Sherlock felt like John had smacked him. He hadn't realized it, but he had been only thinking about the fish, and yet he still ended up head first in the stream, screaming about the evils of sentiment. How did that work? Since when did things come out of his mouth that he wasn't aware of and didn't expect?

"You want to know why I keep hanging around Paris."

"For your ridiculous rescue attempt," Sherlock said, but they both knew it was a weak ploy.

"Because of this. Sherlock, you're cracking up a bit… not a lot, but enough to be noticeable."

"I am not."

"You freaked out because you were bested by a fish."

"Maybe a little," Sherlock amended. It was hard to argue with that, really.

"You're going to end up missing part of yourself because you keep hanging around Irene Adler."

"I'm not leaving, John."

"I know you're not."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I like you just like you are."

Sherlock paused, replaying the words in his head. "I don't understand."

"I like you as you are, you big stupid idiot. I'm staying around because I'm trying to help you keep from completely cracking. You need some time to remember back home."

"You don't have to stay for me. I'll be fine," Sherlock muttered.

"I doubt that, but I'm not staying for you. I'm staying because I want to."

"You hate Paris."

"But I love you… as my best mate," he added. "You are the closest friend I have ever had and you need me."

"I'm not asking you to stay."

"You don't need to. This is what friends do."

"What am I supposed to say?" Sherlock asked pretty quickly. He knew he wasn't getting the social interaction this required.

"Just say thanks."

"Thank you," Sherlock said a bit awkwardly.

"Yeah, it's fine," John said. "Now, why don't you go back and change. I'll go back after you," John said, offering to take the fishing rod Sherlock still hand so firmly clenched in his hand.

"No," Sherlock said.

"You can't stay in wet clothes all day. You'll get sick and Irene Adler will kill me if I haven't killed myself for letting you do it." He noticed the look on Sherlock's face and winced. "Yeah, sorry," he amended. He thought of Sherlock stepping off a building again and shivered.

"Just bring me back a change, I don't care."

"Come on, why don't you just go back."

"I'd like to stay here and try this on my own," Sherlock finally said, ire obvious in his voice.

"Okay, okay," John said. "But at least get out of the stream."

"You're not my mother," Sherlock said, wading out after John. The flow of the water wasn't very fast, but it was high enough to be mid thigh on Sherlock, and even higher on John. They both sloshed and squeaked when they got out.

"I'll bring you back a towel," John said, dripping back up to the cabin.

"Fine," Sherlock said as acknowledgement. He set John's fishing rod aside and reclaimed his own, as well as the tackle box. He sorted through the box, picked a lure. He attached it to his hook, mimicking what John had down earlier. He then scooped up the supplies and moved a bit downstream where they hadn't been splashing around in the water.

Sherlock just watched the water for a moment before casting. He sat back down and found the second set of sandwiches that John had found. Sherlock had never found eating very interesting. It was something he had to do to not die, like breathing. All of it was annoying, dull, boring. He ate the sandwich without anyone goading him. Irene's instructions had been pretty simple. She made him eat two or meals a day, and had now taken to dragging him out to the gym. The gym was a place people went who weren't active enough in their normal lives. Irene said he needed to build a bit more muscle. He was fine, but she didn't agree.

He needed to think a little more. He hadn't been focusing on much more than playing his part. Now he had time to think. The objective was to find the camera phone and password. He didn't actually think that finding it would be a problem. Irene got her hands on it about once a month to send information. Finding it wouldn't he hard, he just would only have three attempts at the password. Irene would have to put the proper one in after that. The problem was that she'd know if he did that and then he'd be punished and it would make getting near the phone again harder.

He could deal with the punishment, he was sure, but whatever trust she gave him would disappear more and more every time he tried to get the phone. Ideally he could figure out the password the first time he got his hands on the phone. Yet the world was far from ideal. She could have the same password as before, or she could have changed it. She could change it every time she picked up the phone to get information. He wasn't even sure yet. Chances were that it wasn't a word or phrase. He hadn't been able to figure out what the phrase was last time. That didn't mean that it wasn't a word or phrase, but Irene was smart enough to go with a random number… but then she really did love her games.

He felt a tug on his line and braced himself, starting to reel in the fish. He focused on what John had done when he'd reeled the line in before. He pulled back before giving a bit of slack and then reeling the line in more. The fish fought, fought like any creature that wanted to survive. Yet it didn't fight as hard as the previous one. Maybe Sherlock wasn't just focusing on getting it inside the cabin like he hand been before.

When he paid attention to the way the line bobbed and dipped it was really very simple. It was simple math, simple geometry, simple physics, even very basic biology. Reading a fish wasn't as hard as reading a person. They had only the fight or flight response. They didn't have the brains to plan. That had been his problem before. He'd believed the fish too stupid and so simply used brute force. He'd been angry and bitter and so he'd just used brute force. Now he saw it more like a puzzle, looking for the formula. It was an experiment, finding the right balance between slack on the line, and pulling the fish in.

"Hey, you caught it!" John said. Sherlock turned and smiled, holding up the fish on the line. John set the stack of dry clothes down and took the fish off the line, dropping it in the bucket he'd brought down with him. "Well, that's one experiment you can do. Now get dressed before you get the flu."

"You don't get the flu from wearing wet clothes. I thought you were a doctor," Sherlock said, starting to unbutton his shirt and pull it off. He grabbed the towel off the pile of clothes, drying himself off a bit before he pulled on the clean shirt. Then he worked on the trousers and pants. He completely forsook his shoes and socks. The grass was bouncy enough that bare feet were fine.

"This isn't a bad fish," John said. "Is that enough for you today?" he asked, starting to worry about his own rod and getting his line back in the water.

"No, I have other experiments to run," Sherlock said. He started to check his line to be sure it wouldn't snap at the next fish. He cast and settled back in next to John. He picked up what was left of his sandwich and finished it off.

"What kind?"

"The formula for catching a fish," Sherlock said, smiling a bit.

John grinned. "How many fish do you need to catch to be sure you've got the formula?"

"A good number, observation will work as well."

"So, you caught one, and I caught one… what's the prize for catching the most?"

"One embarrassing story?"

John laughed. "You're on."

**Author's Note:**

> This will have Dom/Sub and BDSM later. This is my disclaimer to tell you that Irene and Sherlock have a ridiculously unhealthy relationship and that if they're lucky they'll get two out of three of Safe/Sane/Consensual. 
> 
> If you've read this on FF.Net, you'll know that the prologue is just added to chapter 1 here.


End file.
